


Made Men

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: (though no one is actually trying to commit it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, NOTE: MOST OF THIS FIC IS T-RATED, That AU where Santino finds John first instead of the Tarasovs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “With you it’s always ‘Father this’, ‘Father that’.” Gianna sniffed. “It’s an obnoxious habit. Very childish. Act your age.”“Oh? And trying to interrupt a stranger about his business isn’t obnoxious?”“You’re such an asshole,” Gianna said, incredulous. “I can’t believe you said that. We’re trying to save a life.”“If you were remotely interested in charity of that nature you wouldn’t be in the family business.”The stranger was staring at them now, blinking owlishly. It wasn’t an unfamiliar reaction to anyone exposed to his sister and their quarrels. “Do you guys mind?” he said finally. His voice was rusty, seldom used.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Riccardo Scamarcio is one of those people who was incredibly pretty when younger. :) This fic is dedicated to that.

The gaunt man stood before the drop, his back to the safety rail, layered in frayed clothes. He didn’t look up as Gianna slowed the car to a stop, the Maserati’s engine grumbling as it died down. Beside her, Santino rolled his eyes, looking away. “Really, sister?”

“He’s going to jump.” Gianna, to his astonishment, was getting out of the car. 

“No he’s not—get back here—Father’s going to be mad enough that we left without our guard detail—” Santino made a failed grab for his sister’s wrist, and ended up scrambling out of the car after her as she strode purposefully towards the gaunt man. “This is _America_. He could have a gun. Probably does.”

“So? I have a gun.” Gianna patted her bag. “And you have a gun, I think? So we are all equal. Everyone has guns. It’s a free country, they tell me. I’m going to talk to him.” 

“What for?” 

“Hey, friend. You have a name?” Her English was a little better than Santino’s, but still thickly accented.

The gaunt man didn’t look at them. Maybe he was dead. No, no such luck—he was breathing, if gently. “There,” Santino said. “He wants to die. Do we really have to watch?” 

“You’re a terrible person,” Gianna said, as though it didn’t run in the family. “I’m going to grab his shoulder, you grab the legs.”

“And then what? We call the police? Oh, that would be fun. Father would be _thrilled_. Having a run-in with the police in the middle of Tarasov territory.” 

“With you it’s always ‘Father this’, ‘Father that’.” Gianna sniffed. “It’s an obnoxious habit. Very childish. Act your age.” 

“Oh? And trying to interrupt a stranger about his business isn’t obnoxious?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Gianna said, incredulous. “I can’t believe you said that. We’re trying to save a life.”

“If you were remotely interested in charity of that nature you wouldn’t be in the family business.” 

The stranger was staring at them now, blinking owlishly. It wasn’t an unfamiliar reaction to anyone exposed to his sister and their quarrels. “Do you guys mind?” he said finally. His voice was rusty, seldom used. 

Gianna plastered on what she likely thought was an ingratiating smile, but there was nothing within her that was remotely capable of the sentiment, so it simply made her mouth look oddly stretched. “Friend, think of what your parents would say.” 

“I don’t have parents.”

“Friends?”

“No?” 

“Life must be very lonely,” Gianna said, angling for sympathy and managing only an aggressive sort of curiosity. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Santino had enough. It was a cold night, he wanted to go home, and he sensed that his sister wouldn’t budge until she had what she wanted—the stranger on the right side of the bridge. He cut in front of her, holding out a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “My name is Santino.” 

Social conditioning worked—the stranger lifted a hand automatically to shake. Santino grabbed his wrist and a fistful of his filthy collar, hauling him back. Thankfully, Gianna had already darted in, getting a hold of his belt, and together they pulled him over the safety rail and onto the road. Smirking, Santino was about to turn to say something to Gianna when—he wasn’t sure what happened. One moment he was standing over the stranger, the next he was shoved down on the pavement, his arm twisted around his back and a knee pressed into his spine. 

Gianna backed off, drawing and cocking her pistol, braced to fire. The stranger glanced at her, unafraid. It wasn’t the fearlessness of the ignorant, or that of the brave. It was the fearlessness of the indifferent. They froze in a mute tableau for a long moment, then the stranger got off, going back a step. Gianna kept her gun trained on him as Santino got slowly to his feet. 

“Usually,” Santino said, straightening up, “people at this point would apologise.” 

The stranger said nothing. He was watching Gianna the way Santino had seen his father’s pet falcons watch live prey. Poised in the dark like this, in the cold, for a moment the stranger looked nothing like a man, more like a revenant, a spirit of violence and forgotten death. Slowly, Santino pushed down Gianna’s wrist, until the pistol was pointing at the floor. This time, the stranger glanced at Santino, assessing him in turn. 

“Sorry,” the stranger said. He didn’t mean it, and hadn’t bothered to sound sincere. Gianna sucked in a sharp breath, her temper waking, so Santino kept his hand where it was. 

“No harm done. That was impressive. What’s your name, friend?” 

“…John.” There was a pause, ‘John’ frowning to himself, as though trying to recall salient details. “John Wick.” 

“Ex-Army?” 

“Marines.” 

Now Santino was curious. Before he could ask further, John said, “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been up here a few times. It’s quiet.” 

“Safety rails are just too passé?” Santino asked. He hissed when Gianna pointedly elbowed him in the ribs and glared at her, but she ignored him as she decocked and packed away her gun. 

“Do you have anywhere to go, friend? We’ll give you a lift.”

John shook his head. “I sleep under the bridge.” That was spoken with no shame, again with that curious indifference.

“Do you like sleeping under the bridge?” Gianna asked, a typically Gianna question, somehow managing both curiosity and condescension.

“Obviously he doesn’t.” Santino said, only to be elbowed again. 

“It’s a place.” John didn’t look offended, at least, still blank. He started to walk, hugging the rail to give them a polite berth. 

“Wait,” Gianna said. “Come with us. We’ll give you a hot drink. Something to eat. Place to stay, if you like. Drive you back here afterwards.” 

“ _Gianna_ ,” Santino objected, astonished. He should have known. Gianna loved life’s cruel little anomalies and life’s hopeless little strays in equal measure, and the stranger was both. 

“Don’t think so. No offence.” 

“There, he doesn’t want to come,” Santino said, but Gianna was scowling, her mood shifting. Nothing annoyed Gianna more than men being stubborn for no reason but stubbornness, she had once told Santino. 

She pushed Santino towards the driver’s seat and advanced on the hapless stranger, dragging him with pretty smiles and ironclad politeness to the back seat, ignoring his murmured protests. He didn’t react violently, at least, though he was quiet as Santino drove, despite Gianna’s determined overtures.

“And what explanation exactly are you going to offer for taking home a stranger?” Santino inquired, once they were out of Tarasov territory and he could relax. 

“He looked hungry and God smiles on charity.”

“That’s the explanation you use for all those dogs you ‘save’ off the streets.”

“The principle’s similar,” Gianna said, with a lofty tilt of her chin. Santino gave up. It was well past midnight by the time they pulled into the driveway of the fortified D’Antonio villa, circling up the tradesmen’s entrance. They’d have to be quiet. 

The kitchen door gave quietly under Gianna’s key, and they walked through into the cavernous space. It would wake eventually closer to dawn, as the house staff began the process of making bread and preparing enough breakfast for the villa, but for now it was quiet. 

“Now what?” Santino said, as Gianna, groping along, flicked on the lights.

She yelped. At the other end of the kitchen, their father was seated by a table, flanked by guards. Age had turned Massimo D’Antonio’s full head of hair silver and thin, and pulled bulldog flaps over cheekbones and his severe jaw, but his eyes were unchanged, unforgiving as they flicked between Gianna, Santino, and John. His fingertips tapped over the silver head of his cane, and he exhaled. 

“Explain yourselves.” 

Either their father had been sitting in the dark waiting for a dramatic moment all this while, or they’d been seen coming up the driveway. Lord forbid his family did anything without melodrama of some kind. Santino tried a smile. “We went for a drive.” 

“I needed some air, Papa,” Gianna said, but the innocent Daddy’s Girl act hadn’t ever really worked, even when she had been younger and actually innocent. Santino didn’t know why she ever bothered. “This stranger was hungry. We were just going to feed him and send him on his way.” 

“And for that you have to drive into the Tarasov’s territories?” At their silence, Massimo sniffed. “Oh yes. Do you think I have no way of keeping an eye on my own children? You could have started off a war. Worse. God blessed me with two children but cursed them with arrogance.” 

Santino grabbed Gianna’s hand as she took in a deep breath. She let it out. “We’re very sorry, Father. It will not happen again.” 

“No. It will not. Come here.” 

Gianna hesitated, but followed when Santino tugged. They approached their own father as unarmed prey before a snorting bear, unwilling and slow. “This is our home,” Massimo said, once they were at his side. “And you should not bring strangers here.”

“I see that now, Papa,” Gianna said, trying for contrition. “I’ll send him away.” 

Massimo ignored her, nodding to his guards. There were three of them, circling around, approaching John, who had to now only watched them with blank disinterest. He clearly didn’t speak Italian, but he straightened up as the guards got close and Gianna sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Beat him to death,” Massimo said, leaning back in his chair. Santino looked away, only for Massimo to catch his wrist, squeezing tightly. “No. Watch.” 

The first guard landed a punch that rocked John back, but the next’s fist met air as John ducked and lunged, tucking down his head, his shoulder driving against the first guard’s ribs, thumping him against the kitchen bench to his right, sending jars scattering. The third guard got fistfuls of his filthy coat, hauling him off and down, but John wriggled out of his coat, jerking back and kicking up sharply with his heel, right between his legs. The guard doubled over just as the second guard kicked at John’s face, his chest, John hissing and bringing up his arms, somehow rolling out of the way, trying to get to his feet. The first guard, recovering, was cocking his pistol, loud in the room, bleeding from the mouth.

Later, looking back, Santino would still be incredulous. John groped along the counter behind him to the left, grabbing a pencil by a small stack of recipe books. He twisted around as the pistol fired, making Santino wince, the sound shatteringly loud, leaving a ringing emptiness. John already had the guard’s wrist in hand, slapping it hard against the edge of the kitchen bench to disarm him, then he raised the pencil in his fist, stabbing down at an eye. He pulled the reddened pencil free as the first guard let out a scream that Santino’s shattered hearing could not register, dragging the second guard towards him by his collar, stepping back and pulling the body in front of him to absorb the double-tap from the third guard. Then John pounced, bearing him down, his weight on the pencil as they landed on the floor, hammering it through his chest with the flat of his fist. 

Gianna’s hand was in her bag, but before Santino could stop her, Massimo was getting to his feet, shaky on his cane. Massimo leaned his cane against the table and started to clap, slow, silent at first, until the ringing in their ears slowly subsided. Crouched over his kill and bloody, John glanced up with that strange, raptor stillness. He didn’t make a move for a gun.

“Impressive,” Massimo said, and switched to accented English when John didn’t respond. “Impressive.” 

John said wiped his hands down, straightening up. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, looking at Gianna. As before, he didn’t sound sincere. 

“Army?” Massimo asked.

“Marines,” Santino said, when John merely stared, not quite unfriendly but disinterested, possibly worse. “We found him on a bridge. At the edge, over the water. Pulled him back.” Appealing to the Catholic in his father sometimes helped.

“Ah.” Massimo picked up his cane again, leaning on it. “Now I see. It’s a terrible thing, friend, to want to finish things when you are so young. God would not approve. My children were right to stop you.” 

“I wasn’t going to kill myself.” 

“Allow me to apologise,” Massimo said, to Santino’s surprise. “I may have overreacted. My concern, you see. My children are still young, and new to America.” 

Thankfully, Gianna managed not to roll her eyes. John appeared to consider this. “Okay.” 

“What did my children promise you? Food? Shelter?” John nodded cautiously. “Allow me to do better. I appreciate talent. How would you like to work?” 

“Hired muscle? For the mob? Don’t think so.” 

“‘Hired muscle’?” Massimo shook his head. “Not you. There is a world out there alongside the one you know, friend. I can’t promise that it will be kinder, but I _can_ promise that it will be far more interesting than what you tried to see on that bridge.”

John considered this in silence. Santino tried not to hold his breath. If John said no, Massimo would smile, and wave him away, and the outer perimeter would probably gun him down on his way out. Or try to. Gunfire and shouts would have brought reinforcements already: they were likely waiting just beyond the kitchen door. 

“Okay,” John said. “Food first.”

#

Life in the Italian mafia(?) was surprisingly orderly, and the Marines had made John appreciate order. John was given a room that was larger than the trailer he had once lived in with his mother, nice clothes, even shoes and socks. He'd showered before sleeping, but washed again in the morning for the novelty of hot water, trimmed his beard, and cut his hair shorter. He chose a shirt and pants at random from the wardrobe, and was buttoning up when there was a knock on the door.

“Yeah.” Privacy was a novelty too, a greater one—it had been lacking in his early life as a child, then in his later life as a Marine. 

The pretty young man—Santino, that was it—let himself in, his sister behind him. Gianna was in a sun dress, Santino in a white tee worn under a blazer, both of them young, wealthy, fashionable. Spoiled. Not soft, though. Gianna pursed her lips as she looked him over, walking over to the wardrobe and selecting a gray tie, which she pushed into his hands. “Put that on too. And a vest.” 

“Can’t you take care of this yourself?” Santino asked Gianna. “I have a lecture in forty minutes.” 

“I’m flying back to Rome tonight and you know it,” Gianna shot back.

“So what? John’s a grown man. Not a puppy. Father’s seldom impressed. He’ll do fine.” 

Gianna rolled her eyes. “You say you want to inherit and still you know nothing.” When Santino glared at her, they started to argue in Italian. John watched for a moment, bemused, then he finished buttoning up, looping the tie under his collar. There was a mirror at the dresser, which gave John an unforgiving view of his bruised face, the grimness of his eyes. His first attempt at a basic knot was pathetic by any standard. He undid it, trying again, only for fingers to push against his shoulder, turning him around. 

“Give that here.” Santino was quick and deft, retying then tightening the knot, folding down his collar. “ _Maledizione_. I’m going to be late.” 

“Thanks,” John said, which earned him another glare. Santino growled something at his sister and left, all stiff-legged strides. “What did I say?” 

“Don’t mind him.” Gianna lounged by the window in a catlike stretch. Her smile was sharp. “My darling little brother has a large number of issues that he really should be medicating. You clean up well.”

“Thanks,” John said again, if warily this time. Thankfully, this sibling merely chuckled. 

“It’s a pity that we found you so late. I cannot extend my trip, my own semester is starting.” 

“The mafia go to college?” John asked, before he could stop himself.

Gianna laughed. “Why, of course. The mafia has been sending children to college for a while. It is, after all, a family business. Come, give me your arm. No, not like that. Like this.” Satisfied, Gianna hooked her fingers against his arm. “Now we are going for breakfast. My father may be there, he may not. You will hopefully have table manners. You will also hopefully refrain from murdering anyone with a fork.” She smiled. 

“Spoon is okay?” 

This got another laugh. “Oh, my friend, I think we will get along just fine.” 

He liked her, John decided. Gianna was quick on the draw, fearless, her claws bared on the surface. They sat at breakfast outside, in view of the sprawling garden, where John decided not to bother with the surprisingly large amount of cutlery lined around his plate and just picked forks and knives at random. There was champagne, which puzzled him, though he obligingly picked up a glass when Gianna tried to toast him, only for her to purse her lips. 

“You don’t hold a glass like that. Not the bowl. You hold the stem, or your fingers heat up the alcohol and change the taste.” Gianna sniffed. “My brother also has this bad habit, except that he knows better. Sign of someone with no taste.”

“He’s not so bad,” John said unthinkingly. After all, Santino had stopped Gianna from shooting him on the bridge, and had possibly stopped Massimo from doing worse in the kitchen. 

“Hold on to that thought,” Gianna said, patting his knuckles. “Because if I cannot persuade Father to let me take you with me to Rome, then you will be stuck here, and my brother will be the worst part of that experience, believe me.”

Massimo arrived, with a new set of guards. He greeted his daughter with a kiss on the cheek, more perfunctory than affectionate, and sat at the head of the table, selecting fruit. He walked with a limp—an old injury, exacerbated by time. He was unwell, given the pallor of his skin. John nodded a greeting. Sickly, imperious old men were dangerous. They had nothing left to lose. 

“You like your room?” Massimo asked.

“Yes. Thank you sir.” 

“No need to get used to it. The D’Antonio family has always done well by its contractors. You’ll be able to buy a nice house of your own somewhere. Soon, if you continue to be promising.”

“Okay,” John said, indifferent to the prospect. “Thanks.” 

Massimo sniffed, asking his daughter a question in Italian. John ignored them, selecting a pastry. His appetite had returned overnight, though he chewed slowly, watching the world through the corner of his eyes, keeping his feet flat on the grass. He glanced up briefly when Gianna started to raise her voice, but kept eating even as she abruptly stood up from the table and stormed off.

A door slammed. Massimo sighed. “Italian women, eh?”

John didn’t know what the appropriate response was, so he shrugged. Massimo ignored him anyway. “She thinks she can bring you back with her to Rome like a pet dog. Pah! She’s my daughter, despite everything, and I love her, God have mercy. I don’t know you, friend, but I do know you’re dangerous.” 

“That’s fair.” 

“A man who can kill three people with a pencil…” Massimo sipped his coffee. “How good are you with a gun?”

“Okay.” 

“You didn’t ask me which gun.”

“Don’t need to.” John was fairly sure he was a good shot with anything from small arms to grenade launchers. Life in the ritualised abuse that was boot camp at Parris then deployment for years in various hellholes around the world had been good for that, at least. 

“Are you good at following orders?”

“If I have to be.”

“Funny answer for a soldier.”

“I’m no longer a soldier.” 

“For a good reason?” Massimo didn’t sound particularly interested.

“There was _a_ reason,” John conceded. 

“You’re honest. I like that.” Massimo grunted. “I don’t like liars. I don’t lie myself. Because I don’t fear anyone. The only time you lie is when you’re afraid.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t fear people, but he suspected the reason behind his lack of fear was a malfunction, not courage or circumstance. He opted for silence, reaching for coffee.

“Finish your breakfast. Then Angelo here will take you to a doctor. And a firing range. Just some tests.”

John nodded. He’d figured as much. “Okay.” 

“No need to be nervous. You’re already one of mine and we in the Camorra take care of our own. Should you pass medical with flying colours, eh, that’s good for everyone, no?” 

“And the firing range?”

“Impress me again and we will see.” 

John didn’t bother. He sat quietly through medical, was pronounced healthy, and then taken down to a firing range under the villa, where he went through the motions on autopilot. By the time he was back in the villa proper, there was some sort of scene in the foyer. Gianna was leaving to go back to Rome, apparently, and there were tears and hugs. John slunk quickly back to his room to hide. He wasn’t used to three meals a day anyway. 

Closer to midnight, there was a knock on the door that woke him up. It was Santino, to his surprise. “You didn’t eat dinner,” Santino said, his manner brusque. “Any reason?”

“Not hungry?”

Santino sighed, as though John’s answer had somehow personally offended him. “Put some pants on.” 

Boxers duly covered, John yawned as he followed Santino to the kitchen, where Santino located leftovers in the fridge, though John had to be the one to find bowls and work the microwave. He _was_ hungry, something that surprised him, though Santino watched him in silence until he was done and everything was stacked in the sink. 

“My sister wants you to be my pet project,” Santino said, as John started to wash. He had his hip leaned against the counter, arms folded. 

“Why?” 

“She says she’s worried, but I think she just wants to annoy me. Either way, she somehow got my father to agree. So. Tomorrow is Friday and I have no classes. We will go on a drive. After breakfast. I don’t want to make a procession of it but we’ll probably have no choice.”

“Okay.” Dishes washed and dried, John stacked them in the rack. 

“I saw the reports from this afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary.” At John’s nod, Santino frowned at him. “Come.” 

They headed down to the firing range. Santino distributed headphones, setting up briskly. He wasn’t a bad shot with a pistol. Better than average, maybe. “Your turn,” Santino said. Brace, aim, fire. Santino studied the target card, then John in turn. “Come on. Try again.” Brace, aim, fire. Santino sighed. “You’re better than that.” 

“I didn’t do that much better this afternoon.”

Santino shook his head wearily, as though chastising a child. He ducked into a side room and came out bearing three target cards, which he leant against empty booths. They were John’s, from the afternoon. “Double taps at centre mass,” Santino said. 

“Yeah.” 

“If you wanted to pretend to be average,” Santino said, tapping his fingertips over a card, “you should have been more random about it. Here, here and here. Your shots are almost always to the same spot. Even at maximum range.” He sauntered over, patting John’s arm with a faint smirk, leaning in. “Come on,” he breathed, so close to John’s cheek. “Again, _stronzo_. Don’t bore me.” 

This time, John focused. He hadn’t wanted to. But the Devil Himself had laughed in his ear, and that he couldn’t ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parris and US Marine boot camp: all the trigger warnings: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/06/magazine/how-the-death-of-a-muslim-recruit-revealed-a-culture-of-brutality-in-the-marines.html 
> 
> Massimo’s quote about fear is by John Gotti.
> 
> My hand slipped? XD;; I’ve been writing this on and off whenever I met my day’s writing quota for my original story for Epigram, and now that it’s hit 3k I guess I might as well put this up. Updates will probably be slower than usual for me. Have 10k to go to pass the recommended limit for my book for submission, but I don’t think I can close in 10… oh well.


	2. Chapter 2

Gianna hated flying, even flying private. It was a long flight from New York to Rome, she could never sleep on planes, and it gave her a headache that persisted all the way to the fortified D’Antonio villa on the outskirts of Rome. 

Her grandmother fussed over her as retainers unloaded luggage from the cars, clucking as Gianna stifled yawns. “Oh, my poor baby. Did you eat on the plane? Did you sleep?” 

“I’m fine, nonna. Really.” 

Paola D’Antonio pressed her lips together. Time had been kinder to Gianna’s grandmother than her father: though her back was starting to bend under the weight of her years, Paola had a thick head of white hair, laugh lines etched over delicate cheekbones. She wore a bright turquoise scarf around her long neck, a gold chain over a navy dress, defiant of age and convention to the last. 

“So you must be hungry. Come.” 

“I’m not hungry, nonna.” There was no arguing when her grandmother had set her mind to something. After all, once, Paola D’Antonio had effectively ruled the D’Antonio family, up until she had deemed Gianna’s father old enough to handle it. 

“Nonsense. We will have breakfast. And then you must rest. But in the evening we have to be in Naples.” 

“Naples? I have a lecture tomorrow at Sapienza. Which is in Rome.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. We will come back after the function. We can take the plane. If you cared about your lecture or your law degree you would have come back to Rome earlier. Spent more of your semester break with your poor nonna, whom you so cruelly abandoned.” 

“This again?” Gianna said, though she smiled as they sat at a table in the manicured garden, already laden with delicate pastries. 

Paola sniffed. “Someday I will die and _then_ you and your useless brother will miss me. How is my useless grandson?”

“Still useless. It is a character flaw that cannot be corrected.” 

“Be careful of that one,” Paola said. “Useless people often have a high and incorrect opinion of themselves. One that causes them to make idiot decisions.” 

“I’ll watch him, nonna, don’t worry.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.” Paola stabbed a sfogliatella with a fork, watching it ooze ricotta. “I worry that _you_ get distracted. My only normal grandchild. But the street mongrels, your brother, this law degree, feh. You have your mother’s love of lost causes, God rest her soul.” 

“Yes, yes.” Gianna picked up one of the shell-shaped pastries with more aplomb. “How are things in Rome? Have the other clans come around?” 

“The Riccis will back our play for the Seat, although I had to twist that Giovanni’s arm. Angelo Pintauro’s holding out but I think he will crack soon. Sofia, hn, I’m still working on Sofia. The other clans will fall one way or the other once we have enough support from enough big fish. This is why we are going to Naples tonight.” 

“Meeting with other Camorra Clans? Father didn’t mention anything.”

“Your father has his hands full establishing a foothold in New York. I told him to start with Chicago, at least we have allies there, but no, he is stubborn, always stubborn.” Paola stabbed the sfogliatella again, though this time she also deigned to take a bite.

“It’s necessary to make a splash,” Gianna said. “Since our family hasn’t expanded past the Continent before. You need an American foothold for prestige. Profit. Proof of our right to be seated at the High Table instead of the Liveri.” 

“I’ve heard this lecture from Massimo, no need to parrot it.” Paola narrowed her eyes. “And what’s this about driving around at night without your detail in the Tarasov territories? Was that your brother’s idea?”

“No,” Gianna admitted. She blushed, to her mortification. “I wanted to go by myself but he insisted on coming along. I just wanted to drive around for a while before coming home, I didn’t realize where I was until it was too late.”

Paola patted Gianna on the arm with her leathery palm. “I remember what it is like to be young. You will make more mistakes. Like falling in love and having children who will give you ungrateful grandchildren to worry you to an early deathbed when they go missing for two hours.” 

“Yes, nonna.” 

“Your father thinks you need a guardian and I agree. I have selected someone suitable. That nice man at Rome’s Continental, Caesar, it was his recommendation.”

“His name is ‘Julius’,” Gianna corrected automatically. “Wait. I don’t need a babysitter. I already have to travel with a guard detail. And I’m armed.” 

“Yes, yes. Next time you are so confident, maybe don’t go driving around in hostile territory for two hours.” 

So it would be punishment. Gianna swallowed a sigh. “Do I get any say on this at all?”

“No.” Paola clapped her hands. One of their retainers ducked indoors, returning with a tall, grave man. His head was shaved bald, and he was dressed from head to toe in a charcoal three-piece suit over a black shirt. No tie. Gianna didn’t bother to hide a grimace. 

“This is…” Paola hesitated. “What was your name again?” 

“Cassian, ma’am.” 

“Ah yes. Cassian. Cassian, this is my granddaughter, Gianna D’Antonio. Your ward.” 

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Cassian said. At least he was polite, though he spoke Italian with an accent, which was uncouth. 

“Is this really necessary?” Gianna frowned. “What about when I have to go to class?” 

“I’m sure he’ll be unobtrusive,” Paola said, supremely disinterested.

“Or if I want to go out with friends?”

“Friends, fine. Boyfriends, no. He has standing orders to shoot any boyfriend. Especially secret boyfriends. Eat, rest. Remember, tonight we have to be in Naples.”

Gianna sulked through the rest of breakfast and stalked off into the villa to her room, at which point she realized, to her exasperation, that Cassian was following her. “We’re at home. You are off duty. Go and sun yourself in the garden or sit in a corner or whatever you do in your downtime.” 

“Your grandmother told me to keep a close eye on you,” Cassian said. He had a mild, infuriatingly calm monotone of a voice. “Within reason, of course.”

“Following me around a fortified house is within reason?” 

“Just getting a general idea of the lay of the land.” 

Gianna glanced around. During this time of day, this floor of the villa was quieter. She pulled him over to a balcony overlooking the garden, where she knew there would be no eavesdroppers. Or CCTV cameras. “Look,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I know what my grandmother paid you to do. Don’t get used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Being here, obviously. You were hired to punish me for a stupid thing I did in New York. Once my grandmother decides that I’ve been punished enough, you’d probably be fired. So. Make things easier for yourself.”

Cassian raised his eyebrows. “By doing what, ma’am?”

“By trying your best not to piss me off,” Gianna said, as sweetly as she could. “Your short stay with us can be pleasant, or it can be hellish. Your choice.”

To her annoyance, Cassian’s mouth actually twitched, as though he was stifling a laugh. “Damn. Julius warned me about you guys.” 

“And you took the ward-contract anyway?” Gianna asked, suspicious. Julius, in her experience, generally never minced words about anything. The Continental’s Managers were all the same.

“Paid well and I was in between jobs. Ma’am. I know this is new, and won’t be easy on you. But I’m here to do my job, so I’ll thank you to let me do it.” 

“If that’s what you want,” Gianna growled. “I’ll make you regret it.” 

“Probably. But I’m still going to do my job.”

At least Cassian didn’t follow her into her rooms. Gianna took a petty pleasure in slamming the door in his face, then calling her brother repeatedly until he picked up.

“Good fucking Lord,” Santino said, with a groan, husky from sleep. “Do you know what time it is?” 

“Three? Four in the morning?” Gianna shot back, merciless. “Nonna. Hired me. A _babysitter_.”

There was silence on Santino’s end for a while, and then he started to laugh. Gianna waited in a murderous silence for him to calm down, then Santino said, “So what do you want me to do about it?” 

“Talk to father. He listens to you.”

“No he doesn’t.” 

“He’s more likely to listen to you than me,” Gianna amended. “Since you’re the _boy_.” 

“And you think nonna cares about what father thinks, do you? Just wait it out, sister. It might even be good for you. Teach you patience.”

Gianna cursed him in Neapolitan until Santino hung up, then she curled on her bed, furious. At least she’d had her revenge in advance, she decided, once she was calmer. The homeless stray they’d picked up was just the sort of person Santino hated.

#

John was dreaming of the dryers. At Parris boot camp there had been large dryers for clothes, great steel things that rumbled and shook and radiated heat as they churned through laundry, baking out water. Sometimes they churned through people, baking out brains. This wasn’t a bad dream, overall, on the few times that John remembered having dreams. He had far uglier memories.

The kid in the dryer this time was Dutton, his carroty hair shaved down but unmistakable. He was fetal in the dryer now. Sooner or later the drill sergeant would get tired of strutting around and let him out. Burned, Dutton would vomit on the floor. He’d be told to wash it out with pure bleach, something that would give him a different set of burns. 

In the dream, John never remembered what Dutton had done. Only John’s own apathy. That part of the dream was the only part that was a lie: all that boot camp had done was widen the incision on a crack that may or may not have been already there. The total surgery would start in the Gulf, to be finished in Afghanistan, where everything was invasive. 

Dutton’s face was changing. It was Gianna, for a moment, now Santino. Around and around. Someone knocked, the staccato shattering the drill sergeant, Santino, the dryers. John opened his eyes. “This your wake up call,” someone said from the other side of the door, in thickly accented English. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” John washed up and picked another shirt and pants at random. He’d forgotten how good fresh laundry smelled. It took him a few attempts to get a decent knot on the tie, and as an afterthought, he pulled on a jacket. The final effect was severe, funereal. He walked out. 

Santino was in the foyer, checking his watch. He stared at John as John approached, looking him over, shaking his head. “No, no, no. What are you, blind? That jacket does not go with those pants. Matteo!” The offending jacket was confiscated, and Matteo, a sour man behind the wake up call, returned with a jacket that was fractionally darker in shade. John put it on, following Santino out to a waiting armoured sedan. 

“We’ll have breakfast at the Continental,” Santino said. “They don’t have a bad selection. You can eat while the Manager arranges for someone to open your account. You may ask questions, provided that they are not boring.”

“Now?” 

“Yes, all right. Go.” Santino yawned, clearly not used to late nights. In the warm morning sunshine, this young man in a yellow shirt and an elegant black wool coat looked nothing like the one who had been pressed against him at the firing range, grinning as John pulled the trigger for his pleasure. 

“So this other world. Is. A mafia underworld?”

Santino glared at him. “No. It is _another_ world, yes, a parallel one, where the world powers are certain organisations, which together form a sometimes peaceful, sometimes warring conglomerate.” 

“There’s a mafia UN?” 

“After a fashion. One with more clout. It is called the High Table, and there are twelve seats. Three Italian ones, for Cosa Nostra, 'Ndràngheta, the Camorra—”

“Wait, what? Three out of twelve seats are Italian mafia? You guys are that big?” Didn’t sound fair.

“That is a boring question. Ask another one.” 

“Your father said you’re Camorra.” John stumbled over the pronunciation. “So he has one of the seats?”

“No, no, no.” Santino passed a hand over his head, a prayer for patience. “‘Camorra’ is the name for syndicates based in Campania. Cosa Nostra is generally what you think of when you Americans talk of the mafia. Sicilian. And the 'Ndràngheta are from Calabria. There are more than a hundred Camorra clans. We have been in Naples before ‘Italy’ even existed.” 

“What are you guys doing in America? Branching out?” 

“The current Camorra seat is held by a rival clan. Liveri. We are their main rival. Things are…” Santino made a dismissive gesture. “Mostly peaceful. But yes. To qualify for a seat at the Table there are conditions. So we are in America to meet one of them. Branching out, as you say.”

“All sounds kinda weird to me,” John tried to imagine it. A parallel world, with a parallel government, run by various breeds of the mafia. One with conditions of government and state. As above, so below, perhaps. People ever gravitated towards familiar structures. 

“It must be very sad, to be born with no imagination,” Santino said, with a haughty lift of his chin, glancing out of the window. The conversation was clearly at an end. The sedan procession crawled into NYC proper, limping through bad traffic to what looked like an ordinary, baroque hotel. 

Before John could get out, Santino touched his wrist. “First rule of your new world. ‘There is no business that can be conducted on the grounds of the Continental’. Especially. Not violence. So don’t embarrass me. Yes?”

“Sure.” John waited until Santino got out of the car before he followed. The others didn’t follow, instead inching off, possibly in what might be a futile attempt to find street parking. 

John wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the interior of the Continental looked like a normal if luxurious hotel, with well-dressed guests lounging on divans and armchairs, even an unruffled concierge behind an elegant counter. It was the ‘guests’ who convinced John that this parallel world was real, and not some sort of elaborate joke. He had seen people like them before, of various stripes, in the Gulf, in Afghanistan, in the other nameless theatres of war that he had been dragged through for most of his life. People who killed people for a living tended to have a dead-eyed look, a lupine stillness. 

Santino walked up to the concierge. “Is the Manager in?” 

“Of course. And this is the new guest?” The concierge studied John with gentle dispassion. 

“Yes.”

“The paperwork is ready. The Manager would be pleased to attend to it personally.” The concierge handed over a keycard. Santino blinked. Surprised, maybe? John said nothing as he followed Santino to a lift. 

“Something wrong?” he asked finally, when Santino selected a floor. 

“I don’t think so.” Santino took in a deep breath. “Probably not. The Manager of New York’s Continental has been known to be eccentric. Don’t stab him with a pencil.” 

“I don’t have a pencil,” John said, a comment that earned him a quick, suspicious glance. 

The Manager turned out to be a bear of a man, with wide, amused eyes, slickly combed hair, cravat, an impeccable suit. He had a firm handshake and a keen stare that reminded John kindly of an officer he had known in Afghanistan. Not the one he had punched. “Ah, Mister D’Antonio. And this is Mister Wick, I believe. Well met. You may call me Winston.”

“My father called ahead?” Santino said, then bit his lip, clearly regretting the question. Winston smiled indulgently, which possibly made the situation worse. 

“No. But I make it my business to know everything. The D’Antonio clan has not sponsored anyone new for an account for a decade. Let alone someone who is not even Italian.” 

“We appreciate talent,” Santino said, trying for his father’s leonine self-assurance and only managing a sardonic sort of arrogance. They were waved to a seat at a dining table, where a breakfast spread had been prepared. John ate, hungry, but Santino picked at a pastry and spoke to Winston in Italian, curt at first, then more expansively. Coffee was served, then served again. The spread, poorly attended to, was cleared. Winston disappeared and returned with a ledger and a small camera. 

The experience of ‘opening an account’ into a parallel world turned out to be surprisingly mundane. John sat through it, bemused, and later, Santino bought him a drink at the bar. 

“Bourbon?” Santino pulled a face. “If you like whisky you should drink a proper whisky. Maybe one of the Japanese ones.” 

“I like bourbon.” It was one of the few things in life that John was sure that he liked. Despite it being an American whisky, he’d actually developed a taste for it thousands of miles away, surrounded by sand, in an FOB that he had once thought he would die in. Or near. 

“Maybe we will change that.” 

“Saw you pay for it with a coin?” It had been a gold coin, intricate, more of a pirate’s doubloon than a coin. Santino handed one over, from within his suit. “You guys have your own currency?”

“ _We_ do,” Santino corrected. “This is your world now.” 

“How does that work? Lady before you at the concierge paid for a room with a coin. Now you pay for a drink with a coin. Weird kinda economy. You guys don’t deal with real money?” 

“The coins are not exactly currency the way you understand it. But they _are_ ‘real’ money, in their own way. Between our business and the world, of course we use money. But between each other, what is the point of money? These coins are more like markers, for favours. Some people have favours that are more easily bought.”

“You guys gonna pay me in coins?” 

“No. You earn your own markers. My father is generous with them, however, so you will have some of your own if you are not a disappointment. We pay our retainers in cash. Deal with that as you see fit.” 

“So what next?” John asked. He still wasn’t too sure about this new world, or what Santino implied about the work he would have to take. “You guys want me to cap someone?”

“What a way of talking about it. No. Until you know how things work, you’ll only be a liability. Winston is arranging for an appropriate mentor. Ex-MI6, now an independent contractor, if mostly retired. One of the finest wetwork specialists in America. Clearly Father thinks you’re worth the expense.” 

“I don’t need a mentor.” 

“If the only thing you know is violence then in a war you will just die at the end. Surely you know that, Mister US Marine.” 

“Okay.” John supposed that made sense. “So when do we meet him?” 

“Her,” Santino corrected, and checked his watch. “In time. First, we need to get you some gear. After that, a car.” Santino sniffed when John straightened up, now interested. “You like cars, hm? Predictable.” 

“If you’re buying, how about another bourbon?” John asked, and tipped his near-empty glass as Santino scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actress that played Gianna, Claudia Gerini, is way older than Riccardo Scamarcio (which made me sad when I saw a post on tumblr that called her ugly. Gurl, you wish you’d look that good at 45 -_- rude). For the purposes of this fic though their age gap won’t be 8 years because I want them both to be uni students, so it will be 5ish years instead /handwave details.
> 
> The Camorra Never Sleeps: http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/05/naples-mob-paolo-di-lauro-italy
> 
> In John Wick 1, John’s mentor is Marcus, but I don’t remember much of his character and I’m guessing the D’Antonios would probably pick someone else. Besides, I like shoehorning RED’s Victoria into as many fics as possible ^^ No need to watch RED, but if you haven’t, I recommend it. If you haven't seen RED, and you're curious to know more, it will be pretty much this character: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oolftzxj2d8


	3. Chapter 3

Gianna had been to parties like these before. Ostensibly, it was a birthday party, Claudia Ricci’s 21st. In truth, it was a somewhat more civilised setting for a brief cessation of hostilities, where deals could be made or broken. The birthday girl was pale in her peach gown, huddled with a knot of equally uncomfortable friends close to the open bar in the sprawling garden grounds of the Ricci villa outside Naples. She smiled as Gianna made her way over. They kissed cheeks, clasped hands.

“Oh thank God,” Claudia said. “I thought you wouldn’t come. Since semester starts tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it, cousin,” Gianna lied. “I hope you like your present. A little something from New York.” She handed over a beribboned black box that Claudia duly admired before handing over to an attendant. “From my brother and me.” Another lie, if a smaller one. Gianna had bought the present in Santino’s presence, but she rather doubted that Santino knew or cared about its purpose. 

“Really?” Claudia flushed a little, some colour finally coming to her cheeks. “I must remember to thank him. How _is_ Santino?” she asked breathlessly. 

That was the one thing that her useless brother apparently had going for him: the looks of an angel, to quote another, more vapid female friend. Ugh. He had the charm to match, though often he could not be bothered to try. “Doing well. Enjoying university.” 

“I asked my grand-uncle to let me go to New York to study,” Claudia said enviously. “But he said no.” 

“He’s only worried about you. I wasn’t allowed to go overseas to study either.” Not that she would have gone even had she been given the choice. Italy was their seat of power in a subterranean war that had run for centuries. Gianna had no intention of leaving it for any longer than she had to. 

“Relatives.” Claudia was careful to pitch her voice low. She glanced behind Gianna, belatedly noticing her unwanted shadow. “Oh? Who is your friend?” She grinned. “A boyfriend? Your grandmother finally found someone she approved of?”

“Oh God no. This is my new babysitter, Cassian. I did a bad thing in New York and this is my punishment.”

Claudia instantly dismissed Cassian’s presence, raising her eyebrows. “What did you do in New York?” 

“Went for a spin around bratva territory. Just me and my brother.” 

“You guys did _not_. Oh Gianna.” Claudia let out a horrified giggle, covering her mouth with one elegantly manicured hand. “Come. Come and have a drink. You have to tell me all about it.” 

Gianna started to head over with Claudia to the bar, frowning when Cassian edged closer. He was casing the area, watching the exits, angled to box her between his body and the nearest cover if he had to. He _was_ good, Gianna conceded reluctantly. The thought annoyed her more than it should. Smiling, baring her teeth, she motioned Cassian over. Claudia stared for a moment, giggling again once she understood. They sat at the bar, Gianna patting the seat beside her until Cassian took it. 

“So, _handsome_ , what’s your poison?” Claudia purred, laying it thick.

“I don’t drink on the job, ma’am.” 

“Ooh, strong silent type. I like that. Gianna, what do you think?” 

“I find them boring,” Gianna said, accepting a glass of champagne from the bartender. “‘Strong’ is a matter of opinion, ‘silent’ usually means the person has nothing better to say.” 

“Nothing wrong with that,” Cassian said, and smiled. “Ma’am.”

Gianna narrowed her eyes. “Nothing wrong with having nothing to say?” 

“Was told growing up that if you got nothing good to say to someone, don’t say it.” 

“Pah!” Gianna sniffed, taking a fortifying sip of her glass. Beside her, taking her cue, Claudia laughed. “What nonsense. If you have absolutely nothing good to say to someone, that’s when you _should_ say something to their face. For their own good. Maybe it’s not too late for them to stop being a pathetic example of humanity.” She smiled, toasting Cassian mockingly. “I think of it as doing a public service.”

To her annoyance, Cassian chuckled, though he didn’t look at her directly as he did it—he was watching the crowd. Still doing his fucking job. “That’s one way to think about it.”

“So what could you say about Cassian here, Gianna?” Claudia asked, taking a glass of champagne. 

Gianna was about to answer when the band started a few brisk opening notes, a signal for a dance. Someone from Claudia’s pale group of probably non-Camorra friends edged over to nervously ask her for a dance. She accepted, grinning playfully as she was whisked over to the tiled dance floor. Probably the son of an ally of the family, or someone deemed safe enough. A vetted classmate, perhaps. Gianna studied his face anyway, which was why she only noticed Federico Liveri approaching her when Cassian straightened up slightly. 

She managed a smile. Federico was the heir to his clan and its Seat, which was probably why he was at the party. He was older than Gianna by a few years, his black hair slicked and combed back over a narrow forehead. He smiled at her in turn, an ugly smile, a challenge. He was a handsome man, in the way certain vipers were handsome. Gianna extended her hand to shake before he could come close for a cheek kiss, and held her smile as he brushed a kiss over her wrist instead. 

“Gianna, every day you grow more and more beautiful.”

“Federico, every day your lies become less and less funny.” 

“You wound me, my dear. A dance?” 

Over Federico’s shoulder, under a tree with Giovanni Ricci, Paola met Gianna’s eyes and nodded slightly. Beneath her close-mouthed smile, Gianna grit her teeth briefly. “If we must.” 

Gianna wished for a moment that she had worn a dress with less cleavage, though as Federico led her out to the dance floor, she knew that her cleavage wasn’t why Federico had approached her. This dance was a microcosm, an echo of the dance that their families were locked into, over the years, for longer than they had both been alive. She had knives in her hair, and she wanted them in her hands so badly she could taste it.

“We make a good pair, don’t you think?” Federico said, as they circled the floor.

“Oh, another joke. Hilarious.”

He sighed. “Gianna. I know you have every reason to dislike me. Our families have been rivals for a long time. Too long.” 

“So you want to give me more reasons to dislike you? Go ahead, keep telling me things that I know.”

“Someday I will have my father’s seat,” Federico said, as he spun her, silk gowns twisting in tandem across the floor, spooling over pale thighs. “While you will have to stand by your brother and be a dutiful sister.” 

That stung, though Gianna tried not to show it. “We will see.” 

“Your grandmother may love you more, lioness, but your father is as traditional as my father, as all the other fathers in this garden, talking business, always talking business. Even your grandmother is there only because she speaks in your father’s name.” 

“I’m surprised that you aren’t there. Talking business.” Gianna squeezed his palm meaningfully for a second, pressing her thumb against the calluses on his trigger finger.

“I think an endless war is pointless. It is better to share the wealth. Make everyone profit together.”

“Is that communism or socialism? What an exciting idea.”

“There doesn’t need to be a war. Especially not between us. Your father may not see your worth, but I do. We can be good for each other.” Now his eyes trailed down her neckline. 

Gianna smiled. She waited for another spin, and another, the song almost ending. Under silk and skirts, she tread on Federico’s foot, grinding in her heel. He flinched, though he made no sound. “The wolf without his pack is not so scary,” she said, pretending to adjust his collar as the song wound down. “But a lioness needs no pack to do what she likes.” 

Federico’s lip curled, and he caught her wrists, the pressure close to painful. Jerking away would be a sign of fear. Kneeing Federico smartly in the balls was tempting but would probably annoy her grandmother. While Gianna was thinking, Cassian materialised behind her shoulder. 

“Ma’am, sorry to interrupt. Got a call.” 

Federico dropped her wrists, his smile uglier than ever. “Remember, I tried to bid for peace. Thank you for the dance, Gianna.” 

“It was entirely your pleasure, believe me.”

Back at the bar, Claudia’s eyes were huge. “I didn’t think Federico would be here. He’s never bothered to come to the other parties. Are you okay?” 

“Wouldn’t I be?” Gianna glanced at Cassian. “So where is this call?”

“Made it up,” Cassian admitted. “It was between making something up, tackling the guy, or letting your grandmother tackle him. Close call.”

Despite herself, Gianna started to laugh. “Well. Don’t get into my grandmother’s way again. And don’t assume that I can’t take care of myself.”

“Pretty sure you kneeing him in the balls or stabbing your heel through his foot wasn’t gonna go down well,” Cassian said. “Everyone in this party is armed. Except maybe some of the birthday girl’s friends.” 

“What a thing to say,” Claudia drew herself up. “This is a birthday party. _My_ birthday party. Are you implying I’m—”

“Oh hush,” Gianna said, studying Cassian with a grudging new light. “You’ve got a taser in your bag.”

“ _Non-lethally_ armed. And papa put it there. He didn’t let me buy a smaller bag! He _chose_ the bag. It is a tragedy of a bag.” 

“Yes, yes.” Gianna patted her wrist. “That’s why we bought you a bag. A nice one. Have another drink. You as well,” she told Cassian. “Celebrate averting World War III.”

“One drink,” Cassian conceded. “Please none of that bubbly stuff. Got any gin?”

“Oh,” Gianna said, with mock pity. “Another American heretic.”

#

The car that John chose was a hideous car, typically American, a ’69 Mustang, a beast of a machine that Aurelio had modded. Supercharged V8 engine, a flat-plane crank: the ferocious roar that the car made waking up in the garage had actually made Matteo flinch. John hadn’t smiled, though Santino had watched him sit back in the driver’s seat, as though satisfied, stroking the wheel with his thumbs.

“Like it?” Santino said, when John got out of the car. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you sure? There are nicer cars.” Aurelio had a Lamborghini near the back, even. Massimo would have been willing to pay for that.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” 

“We’ll take it,” Santino told Aurelio. He nodded at Matteo, who paid over a small stack of gold coins. Aurelio’s monsters didn’t come cheap. 

“New guy, huh?” Aurelio smiled ingratiatingly. “John, was it? Name’s Aurelio. I’ve got the best chopshop this side of world. I can fix anything you put a car through. Mod in whatever you want. You want James Bond stuff, I can do that too.” 

John looked at Santino, who shook his head. “No. No starting wars on the street with car-shaped tanks. The High Table doesn’t look kindly on such things.” 

“The High Table always shits on my breakfast,” Aurelio said mournfully. “You guys carry grenade launchers around. I seen people shoot people in the _subway_. But the minute an honest guy like me talks about maybe installing a minigun into a car just to see how it jives with the suspension, everyone shits their pants.” 

Santino ignored Aurelio, peering into the car. “It’s so loud,” he said. “Why don’t you make it electric? Those are quiet.” 

John stiffened, even as Aurelio’s smile froze into a horrible grimace. “Eh… well… yeah… I guess electric cars are… good for the environment?” 

“Tried one of those new Tesla roadsters? Nice car. Not yet in general production, but I’ve seen the prototypes.” 

“Yeah… a nice car…” Aurelio looked more and more visibly pained by the second. “If you really want… sir… I can replace the engine… install a battery… and stuff…”

Santino smirked. “Let’s keep that in mind.” 

“Think you broke his heart a little,” John said afterwards, when they were on the way home. The Mustang made for an odd, brash fit into the black sedan procession. 

Santino leaned against the open window of the front passenger seat. “Only a little? I was trying for worse. I don’t like independent contractors like Aurelio, who have no loyalties to anyone but themselves. In Naples we have a closed system. Better. But here we are still finding our feet. Why do you hold the wheel like that?” 

John glanced at his fingers. His thumbs were tucked against the wheel, not curled around. “Habit.”

“From the Marines?” 

“Kinda. Stunt driver’s trick. Got into the habit in Afghanistan. You ram something with a car with your thumbs the normal way ‘round the wheel, you’re just gonna break your thumbs.” 

“Try not to ram anything with your new car. You’d have to pay for repairs by yourself. Aurelio isn’t cheap, and he only accepts coin.” 

“You guys are still being pretty generous.” 

Santino laughed. “No. Not at all. This car, your guns, the new clothes, all of it is a loan. We collect interest. Maybe you will pay it back, maybe you won’t.”

“Interest’s that high?” John only sounded vaguely curious. 

“Not particularly. If you complete one, two jobs well, my father will likely give all these trinkets to you as a gift. Some people just don’t happen to survive the initial process of repayment.” 

The villa was in a minor state of excitement when they pulled into the driveway. There was a new car parked close by, a small silver Aston Martin. The owner of the car was in the garden, having coffee with Massimo—they both rose as Santino and John approached. John’s possible new mentor was blonde going on silvery, her hair still worn in thick curls over slender shoulders. She was in an electric blue dress with a loose skirt, probably hiding any number of weaponry strapped to her thighs, and she smiled in the assessing way certain predators smiled. 

“Ah, you must be Santino. It has been a long time.” She extended a palm to shake. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met, madam,” Santino said, smiling. “Or I would have taken that memory to my grave.” 

“Not bad,” she told Massimo, who sniffed. “The last time we met you were very young. So I am not surprised that you do not remember me.”

“This is Victoria,” Massimo said. “She’s agreed to be a mentor.”

“I said I would think about it,” Victoria corrected, in her crisp, British accent. She shook John’s hand, the both of them watching each other quietly for a long moment. “And this is John, I presume. Hmm. Marines?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How long?” 

“Too long. Don’t really remember.” John wasn’t being evasive, but he wasn’t apologetic either. 

“Recently discharged?”

“Kinda.” 

“Other-than-honourable?” Victoria asked, still mild. 

“Could say that.” 

“What did you do?”

“Punched someone I shouldn’t have.” 

“Who was it?”

“One-star general.” 

Victoria chuckled. “Did he deserve it?”

“Thought so at the time.” 

“What about now?”

John shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it since.” 

Victoria pursed her lips. “This is going to be challenging,” she told Massimo. 

“You like challenges.” 

“Is he worth it? Three men with a pencil, was it? I don’t need anything to kill three men.”

Massimo made an expansive gesture. “Ah, but there is no one else like you. If you were willing to work exclusively for us then maybe we will not need anyone else.” 

“Now I see where your son gets his bad habits from,” Victoria said, though she smiled. “All right. I have a job coming up. I suppose he can come along and hold my coat.” She looked carefully at John as she said this. 

“Okay,” John said, still indifferent. 

“Bethesda Fountain. Central Park, tomorrow. Four o’ clock. Don’t be late.” Victoria shook hands again all round and left, Massimo escorting her out. 

“Anything I should know?” John asked, once they were out of sight. 

“Don’t make her angry and don’t get yourself killed.”

“Could do that,” John said. “Anything else?”

“I’m not sure,” Santino admitted. “Like I said, we have a closed system in Naples. There’s a set procedure in Italy for anyone we sponsor into this life.”

“You said there are a hundred clans. So that’s… a hell lot of people to take on a grand tour each time.” 

Santino sniffed. “If every criminal in the world was part of the system then it would collapse under its own weight. No. Entry into this world is closely guarded. Low ranking Camorristi are not guaranteed entry. Many prefer not to. To be given entry is to be catalogued. There are benefits to that and there are disadvantages.” 

“This ‘other’ world is about accountability, yeah? If everyone’s logged into the system, then there’s no hiding from anyone.” 

“Some people try. But yes. Good guess.” 

“Military was kinda like that.” John glanced up at the roof, where snipers kept a no-go zone around the house through elegant windows on the attic floor. “Parallel world. Lots of rules. Everyone logged into the system, nowhere to hide.” An artificial, absolute order, a necessary structure for a world where people sometimes killed other people and got killed in return, tokens in a grotesque game of human chess. Santino could appreciate the point.

“Not many rules here. Only two.”

“No business in the Continental. And?” 

“Remember when I said the coins are a way of trading favours? There is another coin, a silver one. Traded, it represents a blood oath, a promise of an unbreakable favour for a favour, one that must be fulfilled. You ask for those from Managers of the Continentals and they will tell you more. Usually it’s a bad idea. Don’t do it.”

“And that’s it? Sounds kinda simplistic.”

“They’re the only two rules that the High Table could agree on unanimously, at least.” 

“Ah. Now I see.” 

“Go and drive around in your new and ugly car,” Santino said, checking his watch. “Dinner is not for a few hours. If you want to be fed, come back at a civilised time.” 

“What are you going to do?”

It was an insolent question, one that Santino briefly considered ignoring. Somehow, he found himself answering it instead. “Study? Take a nap? Listen to my sister complain about her party?”

John hesitated, wavering over something, his eyes flicking from Santino’s face and away, to his feet. “Right,” he said, after a pause, turning to go. Santino watched him leave, puzzled. Had John been able to ask Santino to come along? Or? No, not likely: John had been a firsthand witness to Massimo’s ire at any unauthorised jaunts without the convoy. 

And besides. It really was an ugly car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.maxim.com/rides/john-wicks-wicked-1969-mustang-2017-2  
> https://www.wheelsmag.com.au/news/1604/supercharged-ford-mustangs-land-in-australia  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0i9Rpb_QViM


	4. Chapter 4

John was early to the park. He hadn’t been to this part of New York in years. Central Park was thick with people in the late afternoon, tourists, joggers, residents glued to their phones. John slowed to a stop beside the stone fountain, hands loose at his sides. 

He’d gone to the trouble today to pick a matching suit and pants, though Santino had ambushed him at the door to redo his tie, grumbling all the while under his breath in some dialect. Having not wanted to circle around to find parking, John had taken the subway. He wasn’t armed. Had that been an oversight? Surely Victoria would have specified. Or was being armed just the default state in this parallel world? Besides—

“Ah, you’re here.” Victoria appeared at his elbow. John was impressed. He usually had good spatial awareness, a survival trait common to multi-tour veterans, but Victoria had drifted through somehow, keeping out of sight. She was wearing a long camel brown coat, carrying an elegant guitar case with pearl handles. She handed that to John. 

Too heavy to be a guitar. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t bother with all that.” Victoria smiled. “I hate formalities. Call me Victoria. I’ll call you John.” 

“Okay.” 

Victoria started to walk, but she didn’t go far. They settled in at a small cafe within sight of the park, squeezed in between tourists. Victoria ordered tea for the both of them, no food. John watched the crowd. He found that he was curious after all, in a way that he hadn’t been since Afghanistan. Who was the mark? How was Victoria going to do it? There’d be a panic, with so many people around. 

“The job’s later in the day,” Victoria said, once tea arrived. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to work in such a public space. Stop guessing.” 

“Sorry.” Victoria didn’t make a move to touch the pots of tea, so John kept his hands to himself. 

“I thought we might have a chat,” she said, smiling. “Away from your new friends.” 

“Sure.” 

“What do you think of them? You don’t have to lie. This won’t get back to them.” 

“They’re okay.” 

Victoria stared keenly at him, her smile fading. Finally, she sat back. “You actually mean that.” It wasn’t a question.

“Met better people. Met worse people.” Some of the better people John had met had been shooting at him. Some of the worse people had been on his side. Vice versa. War had taught him that people were all the same. They bled the same, died the same. 

“Someone once told me that in war, some men are led to God, and some to bitterness. Did you like killing? In the Marines?”

John glanced at the nearest table. It was a couple on a date, absorbed in each other, giggling, heads bent over a partly eaten cake, forks waved in the air in a gentle, alien rhythm. “No.” He didn’t like killing. But he didn’t hate it either. A long time ago perhaps he had, but he didn’t remember clearly. He hoped he had. 

“What were you in your platoon?”

“Designated marksman.”

“Isn’t that only a recent adjustment?” 

John shrugged. “I did that in my squad years before some officer decided to give it a fancy name.” 

“You were a rifleman, then.”

“Not really.” John wasn’t sure how to explain. It felt like it would be bragging, just to say it out aloud. He hadn’t been a great Marine by any measure. He’d kept himself neat, and followed orders most of the time, but his indifference, or as a Sergeant had said, his ‘not really an attitude problem, more like a total lack of fucks given problem’ meant being a field Marine forever. Particularly with his proficiencies. 

“Why wouldn’t the best rifleman in the squad be made the designated marksman?” 

“I _was_ the best in the squad.” He’d also been the best at everything else that remotely involved weaponry, except maybe explosives. It had unsettled some fellow Marines, even in a culture of people who pushed to be the best at meting violence. 

“So why did you punch out that general?” 

John scratched at his jaw. “He’d come down personally to the barracks to tell us a dumb plan. Knew it was dumb, too. Probably knew it was gonna get us killed. Extra bad kinda Officer Bright Idea. One of the new guys started to object. He was pretty shaken. Nightmares from the last mission, where some local kid was caught in the crossfire, got part of his head blown off. Wasn’t much older than four, five. Kids in the squad took that pretty hard.”

Victoria poured tea for them both. In the cups, the steeped tea was a pleasant dark brown. “Spot of milk,” Victoria said, tipping in milk. “Don’t drink tea with sugar if you can help it. Why did you hit the general? For that boy?” 

It was bitter this way, fragrant. “Kid was fixing for a fight. But he didn’t mean it. Military family. So I got in the way first.”

“Admirable.”

“Not really,” John admitted. “I was also fixing for a fight. Just happened to be faster. They shipped me home. Sergeant of my squad and some officers objected, but the general was pretty pissed.”

“Over a punch?”

“Might’ve broken his jaw.” That had been an understatement. If his squad hadn’t quickly hauled John off the general, they would’ve been soon short a one-starred general. 

“Ah.” Victoria sipped at her tea. “What was it like? Coming back home?”

“Different.” 

“You were homeless when they found you.” 

“Liked it that way. I was on the move for a while. Hitchhiked around.” 

“Heard you turned down Massimo on his first offer. Why did you accept his second?” 

“I was thinking about it,” John admitted. “But I was also thinking that if I said ‘no’ again, he probably would’ve tried to kill me. That would’ve gone badly.”

“For you?” 

“For everyone. Those two who picked me up, his kids, I didn’t want to have to kill them. Think the sister really did just feel sorry for me. Thing is,” John said, struggling again for the words, “from the start… A sergeant once told me, I’m one of those people without a voluntary ‘off’ switch. Got to be told when to stop. Being in the Marines was good for that.” 

“Then you left.” 

John nodded. “Before those two found me, few days before that, I nearly killed someone. Couple of young guys, probably same age as Santino. They stole my backpack. Threw it in the river.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

“Went after the backpack. By the time I swam back, they were gone. That’s what I was thinking about on that bridge. How close I’d come to killing a couple of dumb kids over a bag that didn’t even have much in it.” 

Victoria sighed. She poured herself another cup of tea. “If you think Massimo will give your life structure and boundaries, he will. But this is not a life that should be chosen cavalierly. Still, I suppose it is already too late. You’ve already had an account opened. Already made a deal with the Camorra.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I suppose I’m sorry, in a way, that life has led you to this point.” Victoria patted John’s knuckles gently. “Your country took you to war and never taught you how to come home. So you chose another war.” 

“Kinda.” The reason wasn’t as simple as that, but it was good enough for Victoria. She relaxed. 

“All right, soldier-boy. I’m satisfied. Finish your tea. My car’s down the block. You drive, I’ll talk.” 

“Anything I should know?”

Victoria chuckled, waving the server over for the bill. “Don’t annoy me and don’t get in my way.”

“Santino said the same thing.”

“Thought he would. Not as smart as his sister, that one, but play your cards right and he could be a powerful ally. Camorra families are rather traditional, after all, and barring some sort of disaster, Santino will very likely take over the family after Massimo is gone.”

‘Holding Victoria’s coat’ took the better part of the rest of the day and all of the night. She dropped John off at the villa in the morning, where he was presumably recognised by the guard perimeter. John got to his room on autopilot, showered, and was drying off when there was a knock on the door. 

“Yeah.” 

Santino let himself in, did a double take, and stared. Belatedly, John nudged the bathroom door shut with his foot and pulled on some clothes. “Something come up?” John asked, once he was out. Santino was by the window. He still looked unsettled, his eyes darting from John’s face to his shoulders and down to his crotch. John checked. No further wardrobe malfunctions. 

“Normal people _dress_ before they tell someone to come in,” Santino said, though his complaint lacked his usual bitchiness. “I could’ve waited.”

“Sorry. Habit.”

“The Marines are full of nudists? No, don’t answer that. How did things go?” 

“Victoria talked, I listened, we drove around, she shot someone, paid for clean up, drove me back here.” 

“That’s it?” Santino wrinkled his nose. “Did you learn something, or was that a waste of time?”

“Good experience.” Victoria was interesting company, at least. There was a craftsman’s quality to her work, bloody as it was, with bloodier consequences. “She’s got another job in a few days. Asked me to come along.” 

Santino nodded. “You’ll be going, of course. But in the meantime. Sleep. Tonight there’s going to be a raid. A rival clan has a relay system for the drug trade, and we’re going to take it over.” 

“First instalment on the car?” 

Santino sniffed. “We’ll see. Sleep.”

#

To Gianna’s irritation, her useless brother called her repeatedly at brunch. Sundays were sacred for Gianna: her only family obligations were an early mass, after which she was free to do what she liked. Usually, Santino respected that. “I have to take this,” Gianna said apologetically. “My brother.”

Beside her, squeezed around a small table at Caffè Canova, watching the Piazza, Beatrice and Filippa nodded. She’d met them at Sapienza, in different lectures, chosen them for their unrelenting… _normalness_. Beatrice was the daughter of a printer, Filippa’s parents owned a small gelato shop. “Hope everything’s okay,” Filippa ventured. Beatrice blushed a little, the way she did whenever Santino was mentioned in conversation, yet another of her brother’s incidental conquests. Ugh.

Cassian detached himself from where he’d been standing unobtrusively at the side of the cafe and followed her around the corner, despite the dirty look that she gave him. The rest of her detail had at least had the sense to stay in place, seeded where they were around the cafe and close by. Gianna picked up the next call. “What? It’s Sunday.” 

“John is not normal.” Santino sounded… strained? Worried? It was hard to tell, across the distance. 

“What happened? Are you safe?”

“There was a docks raid at night. Forleo op.” The Forleos were a satellite arm of the Liveri, specialising in smuggling and trafficking cocaine. “Went badly. The Forleos were tipped off. They were waiting for our people.”

Come to think of it, Paola had been distracted during mass, but she was an old woman, and sometimes tired easily, so Gianna hadn’t thought much about it. “You didn’t go, did you?”

“No, no. Matteo went. He told me about it and then Father wanted to talk to me about John. They woke me up for it.” It was an ugly hour in New York right now. 

“He did?” That was new. “What did he say?”

Father _had_ been trying to involve Santino more in the family business, but only incidentally, the same way Paola was with Gianna. They were taken to glad-handing events, sometimes sat in on powerbroking meetings, but they were usually only there to observe and learn, never asked for their opinions save as part of a test. Paola had watched rival clans fracture under the weight of heirs gone wrong from being given power too early, and had learned her lesson.

“Just for an opinion. What John was like on Friday.” 

“All right, slowly. Take a breath. What happened at the Forleo op?” 

“Matteo said they—we—were outnumbered. Pinned down. Docks turned into a shootout. And then John decided to take on the Forleos by himself.”

“So he’s dead?” That was… rather unfortunate. Gianna hadn’t meant that to happen to the drifter they had found on the bridge. 

“Not at all. He’s not even seriously injured. He killed them all. Matteo said it was like watching l’uomo nero at work.” 

L’uomo nero. The bogeyman. Gianna sniffed. “Matteo didn’t strike me as someone that superstitious.” 

“Exactly.”

“You knew he was good. Better than the fake scores during Father’s testing.” Gianna stared at the traffic making balletic loops around the Piazza, pursing her lips. This was an unexpected development. Something that could be worked to an advantage. Or not. It was hard to do things remotely. “So what has Father decided?” 

“Nothing. He’s pleased, of course, that the Forleo operation is now ours. But also surprised.” 

Their father didn’t like surprises. The mongrel he had adopted on a whim had turned out to be a dire wolf. Consequences had an unfortunate way of spreading sideways when their father was displeased. “Careful.” 

“I know when to be careful. Better than you do.” Santino exhaled. “Father’s thinking it over.” 

Gianna closed her eyes. She wished that she was in New York, in her brother’s place. She would know how to handle their father. “You have to stay close to him. Put a stop to any bad ideas. Like getting rid of John. Someone this good at war will be a valuable asset.” 

“I know that.” Santino was actually unsettled enough that his exasperation was halfhearted. 

“Where’s John now?” 

“Sleeping.”

“You should sleep. It’s too early in the morning for you. Rest, and in the morning, if you can’t get to Father again, take John out for breakfast. Or lunch. Be complimentary. But don’t be afraid.” Someone like John could smell fear.

“I’m not afraid.” Santino was definitely annoyed now. “Please.” 

“Good. Keep me updated.” Gianna hesitated. “Do you need me to talk to nonna?”

“Yes, obviously. That’s why I called. In case my intervention doesn’t work.”

“All right. I’ll get to that after breakfast. Sleep. And be careful.”

“You be careful,” Santino shot back, and hung up.

Cassian eyed Gianna thoughtfully when she took a deep breath, but he was a pro. He didn’t make a comment: it was none of his business. Gianna returned to the table, all smiles. It was a pleasant interlude, people-watching, pretending to be normal. They bought dresses at boutiques, admired each other, kissed each other goodbye.

On the way back to the villa, Cassian said, “Your friends don’t think it’s weird that you travel with so much security?”

“They’re used to it now. They think I’m secretly royalty or something.” So Cassian had guessed that Filippa and Beatrice weren’t part of their world. 

“Something come up?” 

Gianna started to dismiss it. She hesitated. Cassian, after all, had already met the Liveri. “Maybe. What do you know about the Forleo clan?”

“They’re pretty close to the Liveri, aren’t they?” 

“Not bad.”

Cassian sighed, though he kept his eyes on the road. “Ma’am, I don’t take a contract without first doing my research. Part of the job. If I don’t know who your enemies are, that’s not me doing my job.” 

“A war’s coming. It might have started already.” Or before, when Gianna had been offered that insulting truce and had laughed in Federico’s face. 

“I figured.” 

“It won’t be your problem for long.” Sooner or later, Paola would relent, and the ward-contract would be cancelled. Gianna stared out of the window as the traffic started to thin out. They were heading out of Rome, passing through to quieter districts, sleepy on Sundays. 

Cassian was starting to reply when the world exploded. The convoy car in front of them was punched sideways, slewing in the air, smashing into a tree. The car that it had been passing on the road was a ball of fire—a bomb? Cassian was shouting something, motioning for Gianna to keep her head down. In her ears there was only a dull and distant ringing. She drew her pistol from her bag, ignoring him. The car rocked as Cassian swerved around the fire. 

Gianna looked back. The convoy car behind her had been flipped into a parked car, fire engulfing both. Grenade launchers? She was jerked hard in her seat. Cassian took the sedan in a tight arc, slotting it between the sidewalk and a car that had charged out to cut them off, a tight enough fit that paint scraped off the side of their sedan and the wall. They were through, burning rubber. Cars behind them were giving chase. A motorcycle pulled up beside Gianna, the biker fumbling with an Uzi. Gianna opened the door sharply, catching the biker and the bike hard in their flanks, sending them tumbling back and crashing through a shop window. An alarm went off, a long and urgent peal.

Two other bikers pulled level, this time out of door range, on their other flank. They fired into the bulletproof windows, cracking them, into the flanks. “Hang on,” Cassian snapped, the only warning Gianna got before the cat abruptly lurched sideways, slapping into the bikers, tossing them bodily across the street. The engine roared as Cassian accelerated, slewing around a van that lurched out of a side street, missing them by a hair. Cassian took the car into a screaming drift, hand tight on the handbrake, taking a sharp angle down another street. 

The next car got lucky. Cassian couldn’t avoid it in time—Gianna yelped as they crashed into it. Cassian cursed, backing off—and floored the accelerator. The sedan lunged, crushing the car before them against the wall of the alley it had come out of, crumpling it against brick and stone. The armoured car rattled ominously as Cassian backed it up again, taking them around the wrecked car.

“Okay in the back?” Cassian asked. He didn’t even sound panicked. 

“Still alive.” Gianna found the hidden catch behind one of the back seats, pulling it down to access the trunk.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s a grenade launcher in the back.” 

Cassian laughed, startled. “Don’t think we’re going to get to that, ma’am.” 

“They started it,” Gianna said grimly. She found the case she was looking for, hauling it out. The car had a sun roof. She opened the case. The launcher was an ugly thing, surprisingly heavy. 

“You’re… okay. Uh. We switch. You drive.”

“I can shoot.” 

“From a moving car? In a residential district? High Table doesn’t look kindly on mass civilian casualties.” 

He had a point. “I drive, you shoot.” It was an awkward fit, twisting around to take over the driver’s seat. She could hear Cassian rooting around the back of the car. “What’s wrong with the launcher?”

“Explosive device. Residential district.” Cassian had found an automatic rifle, one of the M16s, loading it and twisting up to slide open the sun roof. “Take a left.”

“I know what I’m doing.” Gianna took a left, then another, swinging back onto a main thoroughfare, right in front of a pursuing pack. The gun roared, spent shells tinkling over the roof. Gianna checked the rearview window. One of the bikers had swerved in front of the point car, the bike going under, the collision skewing both into a pileup that swallowed the second car. Cassian fired, taking out another biker. Then he was slipping back down, reloading. 

“Think we’re clear.” 

Gianna checked. The cars behind them were slowing to a halt, the cowards. She nodded. Adrenaline made her laugh, teeth bared. She didn’t give up the wheel. Cassian didn’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Led to God/Led to Bitterness” from Dylan’s speech. Or SparkNotes, depending on how you look at it. XD;; 
> 
> The Fighter: As usual with these articles, all the tws, graphic violence, war, etc: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/28/magazine/afghanistan-soldier-ptsd-the-fighter.html
> 
> I’m going to remove all references to ages retrospectively… I think it’d be too much of a distraction and I hate having to keep going back and editing stuff just to make timelines fit. ^^ But yes basically, Santino and Gianna are still young enough to be in uni, John is old enough to have gone through both the Gulf incident and Afghanistan as a Marine. I know certain parts of fandom nowadays are squicked by age gaps or something (still surprising to me having come out of Hartwin fandom), but the gap between Santino and John will remain around the same as canon.


	5. Chapter 5

When told that Massimo hadn’t yet emerged from his study as at breakfast, Santino had originally intended to invite John out, only to be told apologetically by Matteo that no one was to leave the premises until Massimo deemed otherwise, especially not John. So Santino was slightly irked at breakfast and trying not to show it. John ate solemnly, having healthy portions of everything, though halfway through an omelette, he set down his knife and shot Santino a sidelong glance.

“So what did I do wrong yesterday?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone’s been acting weird this morning. Including you.” 

_Don’t show fear_ , Gianna had told him. Santino exhaled. He wasn’t afraid. Not of John, anyway. Concern wasn’t the same as fear. “We may have gravely underestimated you.” 

“That good or bad?”

“By my books? Good. Eat.”

“Way I was told,” John said, ignoring the instruction, “you guys and another clan called Liveri are fighting, and Forleo are Liveri’s allies, we were going after them anyway, so…?”

“I think the problem is not so much that you managed to drive them off,” Santino said, having gotten a better picture of the problem this morning, when Gianna had sent him a flurry of texts. “But that you drove them off, went after them, and hunted them down to the last man.” 

John thought this over. “Okay,” he said finally, clearly confused.

“Including Julian Forleo, the heir to the Forleo clan, who happened to be in the raid.” 

John tilted his head, thinking back. “Young guy, bottle blonde hair, freckles? White leather jacket? He yelled at us in Italian for a bit when the ambush was sprung.”

“He was known for certain sartorial eccentricities, yes.” 

John shrugged. “Fuck that guy, he tried to shoot me with a grenade launcher. Who the hell does that at close range?” 

“Who indeed,” Massimo said, behind them. Santino got to his feet, but his father waved him back down, limping over to the head of the table and settling down with a deep sigh. “The past few hours have been… interesting. Open war has most definitely been declared.” His father was speaking in English, a bad sign, perhaps.

“Could say that, given they tried to kill my _sister_.” Gianna hadn’t sounded particularly phased by the assassination attempt, thankfully. 

Massimo sniffed. “We _did_ blow up Julian Forleo. Nothing left for his mother to bury. A deflected missile from a grenade launcher, was it?” He eyed John pointedly, who stared back. “Though of course, you are a new player to the game, and couldn’t have known.” 

“Sorry?” John said, his least sincere attempt at apology yet. 

“War would have been declared regardless,” Santino said quickly. “The fact that Julian was there showed that the Forleos were confident in a massacre. Of our men.” 

“I’m aware of that,” Massimo snapped. He leaned back in his chair, glaring to the side until someone slunk over quickly with a cup of coffee. Espresso, black. Father was in a poor mood. “ _You_ should be aware that we weren’t as yet in a good position to declare open war as yet. Not in America. The Forleos and the Liveri have been established in this part of the world for a decade. We are relative newcomers here, and don't have the resources to defend against an all out retaliation, particularly not from both those clans.” 

“Resources—”

“Ordinarily,” Massimo said, ignoring him, “to buy time I might have bid for peace. Keep the route, but hand over the person who blew up a young man, barely more than a boy.” 

“That would be a waste,” Santino said, even as John tensed slightly. “Of talent and morale.” 

“You don’t know the difference between a strategic concession and a waste, boy.” Massimo scoffed. “But yes. They tried to kill your sister. In broad daylight. In _Rome_. Killed her escort. Your grandmother is furious.” 

Gianna must have gotten to nonna in time. “She should be. _I’m_ furious.” 

“Anger is a waste of effort. It causes mistakes to be made.” Massimo drained his cup, his eyes narrowed. “This is a _business_. There is no sentiment in business. Understand?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“A balance must be struck.” Massimo pulled a photograph from within his suit, sliding it across the table to John. It was a black and white picture, a side profile of a bald old man with a thin smile. “Vito Forleo. They call him ‘Lucky Forleo’, because no assassin has ever come within a hair of scratching him.” Another photograph of a very tall man with a squarish face. “Salvatore Forleo. His nephew and consigliere.” 

Open war. Santino tried to stay dispassionate. John merely nodded. “Where do I find them?” 

“This is not to be handled like a soldier, rushing here, rushing there.” Massimo leaned back heavily in his chair. “What did you learn from Victoria?”

“That she makes it look so easy only because she’s got everything planned out.” 

“Exactly. Good. A mad dog we have no use for. But someone who is like l’uomo nero incarnate, such a man could rise far in our family. Become what we would call a ‘made man’. Even someone without Italian blood.”

“Okay,” John said, even as Santino stared. A made man? A non-Italian? Surely his father didn’t intend to buck tradition like that. Even for someone exceptional. Unless it was just an empty promise. That seemed more likely. Massimo did not expect John to survive. 

“Victoria mentioned to me that she felt you needed a ‘handler’. Normally I would hand you to a capo. But I think that would be a waste. I think you would make a fine fixer. Like Victoria.” 

“Thanks?” 

Massimo nodded at Santino, who straightened up, wary of being so suddenly included. “My son will be your handler. It is not a role we would have in a clan, but an unusual situation needs unusual measures.” 

What.

John thought this over. “You think maybe you won’t mind if I get myself killed,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Especially if I do it by myself like a crazy guy. Nobody loses face. But if I manage to cap those two, it’d look good if you could say you had someone close to you backing me.” 

“Not bad.” Massimo chuckled. It was a harsh, coughing sound, with little mirth. “I don’t believe in stacking the deck. Whatever you might need for this job, my son will get it for you. Within reason.” 

“Okay.” John said. He pocketed the photos. “I get these two guys, I keep my car?” 

Was John joking, or did he not understand how impossible his task was going to be? The Forleo clan had been in New York longer than the Liveri. Massimo smiled coldly. “The car and more, besides.” He got heavily to his feet. “Good hunting.” 

They watched him go. Once Santino was fairly sure his father was out of sight, he exhaled. “Sorry.” 

“About what?”

“Don’t you understand?” Santino paused. “Maybe you don’t. Here in New York there is something called the Five Families. Liveri, Forleo, Corallo, Salerno, Facciolo. Together they control most of the illegal trade in New York. The bratva and other organisations have a presence as well, but it is a small one that is tolerated.” 

“You guys might be big fish in Italy but you are small fish here?”

“Not a bad summary. Probably one you shouldn’t say to my father’s face. Liveri and Forleo are Camorra, Salerno and Facciolo are Cosa Nostra, Corallo is Ndràngheta.” 

“So you guys have to muscle in on at least one of them without getting burned.” 

Santino pulled a face. “In a sense, yes. To send you against one of the Families without backup—”

“He sent me against two guys.” John was still eating, washing it down with coffee. 

“What, do you think they’d stand quietly somewhere by themselves, no guards, waiting to be gunned down?” 

John paused, glancing at Santino. “I’m guessing there won’t be roads seeded with land mines, car bombs, carpet bombs, mortars, people wired up to run at you and blow up, no go zones full of snipers—”

“All right, I get your point.” 

“Still need gear.” John polished off his omelette. “When do you want this done?”

Santino threw up his hands helplessly. “When do you want to get yourself killed? I don’t know.” 

“I kinda want to go along with Victoria on her next job first.”

“Fine. Sure. Don’t give her any details.”

“Code of silence, I know. Omerta, right?” 

“Omertà,” Santino corrected, grimacing. “Someday you’d have to learn Italian, at least. Neapolitan as well, for preference. If you survive.”

“Hey.” John reached over, grasping Santino’s wrist. His fingertips were rough with calluses, startlingly warm. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to die.” 

“I’m not worried.” Belatedly, Santino remembered to jerk his hand free. “They went after my sister. If you can kill them, good.” 

“Yeah. I like your sister.” When Santino stiffened up, John added, “Not like that.” 

“I hope not. Gianna is very pretty, yes. But never mention that again. Especially not in front of Father or my grandmother. Or never mind the Forleos, Father will probably have you killed first. And castrated. Not necessarily in that order.”

“She looks like she can take care of herself.” 

“Why are we talking about this?”

“‘Sides,” John said, without looking up, “you’re a lot prettier than she is.” He reached for another helping of coffee as Santino sputtered, belatedly noticing Santino’s reaction only after he’d poured himself a cup. “What?” he asked, confused. “Wrong word?” 

“I… you… Never mind. Drink up. We need to get you to a specialised tailor.”

#

Victoria’s target died unceremoniously in a car park, gunned down by a mounted M134, of all things. It was overkill, in John’s opinion, though he was quiet during cleanup and after, coasting back on the highway in the silver Aston Martin, Victoria driving.

“Supper?” Victoria asked. 

“Sure.” John wasn’t sure what time it was, let alone what was going to be open, which showed him what he knew. They ended up at a 24/7 Ukrainian joint on Second Ave, sharing plates of boiled dumplings. 

“Pierogi,” Victoria said, and repeated it until John managed the pronunciation. “Eventually you’d need to pick up other languages. I can recommend a coach.”

“Italian and Neapolitan, right?” 

“Not just that. Russian as well, preferably. Mandarin, if you can, but that’s a very difficult language. The more languages the better.” 

John nodded. He didn’t mind learning languages. It sounded like the gentlest skill he was going to have to pick up, as part of his new life. He ate a dumpling. It was, rather unexpectedly for a boiled dumpling, filled with cheese. 

“I heard about what happened at the docks.” When John glanced up but did nothing more than spear another dumpling, Victoria smiled. “Oh, don’t panic. Word gets around. I haven’t been the only one watching your budding career with interest.”

“There was that guy in the Continental, the Manager.”

“Winston’s a darling. Terribly nosy, but that’s the way of his kind. No, I meant other people like me. Fixers. It’s always interesting when a prominent organisation decides to sponsor a total outsider to our ranks.” 

“It’s that rare?”

“In your circumstances, yes. The Italians can be rather… hm… clannish.” 

“Who sponsored you? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“We don’t have to be sponsored by an organisation. Technically, I sponsored myself. I was aware of this world through the nature of my work in MI6. After I retired, I reached out to the Manager of the Continental in London. The rest is history. Though in a way, it was just more of the same.”

“Why didn’t you just stay in MI6?” 

“Field agents have a mandatory retirement age, dear. I tried retirement. Got restless.” Victoria ate delicately. Until the M134 in the car park, John would have thought that she did everything delicately. “What’s on your mind? You’ve been quieter than usual.”

“The car park.”

“Ah.” Victoria took a sip of water. “This is a world of symbols. Coins, markers, titles. Few years ago there was a man who broke omertà in Chicago. He was found dead, stabbed through the eyes, a dead canary stuffed down his throat. Symbols, you see.” 

“Poor bird.” 

Victoria smiled. “Arms for an arms dealer who overstepped his bounds. And besides. Eventually, it also becomes a question of style.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, not for everyone,” Victoria allowed. “But it’d be terribly tedious otherwise for me, doing the same thing over and over.” 

“This is kinda like the Marines. Except I have to work out everything myself. Supplies, information on the ground, plan of attack.” 

“Your sponsor can help you with supplies. Information is a little trickier. For many things there are freelancers. Maps, for example. You need only to ask Winston and he will point you discreetly on your way. For others, you’d have to do your own legwork. As to a plan of attack, I suppose shooting until no one shoots back has generally worked for the Marines, hm?”

“Kinda want to avoid that. Massimo was pissed over what went down at the docks.” 

“I doubt that. If he was truly angry everyone would know, because someone would usually die. The last time he was angry, he had his wife shot.” 

John blinked. “His kids know?” 

“They were very young. But yes. They know.” Victoria stared at him soberly. “Careful. Don’t make _too_ big a splash. You’re protected right now as part of the D’Antonio family. Which means no one can take out an open contract on you without antagonising them. But a private contract, well.”

“That’s the kind of thing you do.”

Victoria chuckled. “Don’t worry, John. I tend to warn my friends first. Give them a head start, at least.” 

It was a weekday, which meant Santino had classes, though he had left John a small stack of coins. John slept in, had a quiet lunch, and took the car out for a drive. He had a new wallet. Credit cards, even. That still felt unreal, as unreal as the rumble of the supercharged engine shaking the frame of the car around him, the acceleration. John drove aimlessly for a while, then picked his way over to Aurelio’s chopshop. 

The mechanic beamed when he got out of the car, though John noticed that he gave the car a quick professional once-over first. “John! You’re back. Wait.” Aurelio’s face fell. “Is this… you guys want it to be… electric after all or…”

“No. Just wondering. Need another car. A cab. Thought you might have one.”

“A cab? Well. Yeah. Most of the ‘special’ cabs round these parts belong to the Tarasovs, but I’ve got a cab in the back. Was left as collateral, guy never got around to collecting it.” 

“How much?”

“It’s a piece of shit, not modded, so. Let’s say a couple of coins, and I’ll get one of the guys to drop off your car back with the D’Antonios. Assuming you need the cab now. You need that modded?” Aurelio lit up hopefully. “I never thought about maybe fitting James Bond shit in a cab. Could be a challenge.”

“No thanks.” John paused. “Wait. Maybe one James Bond thing.” 

Afterwards, John handed over the coins and his car keys, a little reluctantly. He’d already bought some clothes that would look more like something a cabdriver would wear, and he changed into those in a car park closer to the city. Then he went hunting. 

Vito and Salvatore Forleo were based in Brooklyn. The intel on Vito was sketchy, but Salvatore was upkeeping a mistress somewhere in Crown Heights. The Forleos didn’t have a villa like the D’Antonios in New York: they had an apartment block, walled in. Security was tight. John kept cruising. Sometimes, he picked up fares, always careful to return unobtrusively. The ‘James Bond mod’ that he’d asked for was a changeable license plate, tricked up to a hastily installed button on his dash. Aurelio had been extremely excited to install it. God only knew what would happen if the High Table someday stopped vetoing ‘special’ cars. Poor man might die of excitement. 

Eventually, John learned where Salvatore’s mistress was, and when he liked to visit her. He learned where Salvatore’s favourite pizza shop was, and how long he liked to stay in there. He learned Salvatore always travelled in a convoy, not always in the middle car. Vito was still a blank. 

“Maybe he just never leaves the apartment block,” Santino said. He had commandeered a spare room in the villa, which was now full of maps, large and small. There was an extra-large map of Brooklyn that took up most of one wall. Santino stood beside it now, hands behind his back, frowning at the yellow thumbtack over the Forleo residence. 

“How would you handle something like that in Naples?” 

“Generally? _Not_ by barging in and starting World War III, if that’s what you’re thinking. All out warfare is bad for everyone. The police only have a certain degree of tolerance. And it’s bad for business. So the large clans try to avoid it.” 

John was eating his dinner at the table, a sandwich that Santino had pointedly brought him from the kitchen, after a lot of bitching about how he wasn’t a housekeeper. There’d been some movement at the apartment courtyard that had made John curious enough to stay late, but it had died down close to midnight. Nowadays, John kept odd hours, catching up with Santino only when their schedules meshed. 

“You guys caught the mole yet?”

“What mole?”

“Someone told the Forleos about the docks. And where your sister was.”

“My sister makes no secret of where she goes on Sundays. As to the docks… yes. Something went wrong there. Father’s been working on it.” 

Still, the Forleos hadn’t recognised John yet, snooping around their territory. “I’ll cap Salvatore first,” John said. “Okay with that?” 

“Won’t that worsen the security around Vito?”

“Deal with that bridge when it comes.” 

Santino didn’t reply. His hands were restless, clasping and unclasping. Was this the first time Santino had to give a kill order? It looked like it. First taste of actual power, maybe, of his birthright. Power of life and death. Some people liked that kind of thing. John had seen people get drunk on it in the Gulf, in Afghanistan. They always went wrong in the end. 

“Yes. All right,” Santino said. He didn’t look at John, his hands white knuckled for a moment before relaxing, loose. “Get rid of Salvatore Forleo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow there are 24/7 food places in NY… :o http://gothamist.com/2014/02/12/best_all_night_restaurants.php


	6. Chapter 6

Given there was now officially a clan war going on, Paola had initially wanted to pack Gianna off to Naples posthaste, but Gianna disagreed. What was the point of running scared? The life they led was dangerous, war or no war. So she went for classes. Besides, things in Rome were quiet compared to Naples, attempted assassination notwithstanding. People getting shot in Secondigliano, boundaries shifting. 

The Private Law library at Sapienza was open around the clock. Gianna usually staked out a corner with Filippa and Beatrice, leaving her guard detail outside, since only students could get access cards. To her annoyance, Cassian somehow produced a card of his own. Filippa and Beatrice goggled. Gianna raised her eyebrows. 

“What?” Cassian asked. 

“Did my grandmother give that to you?”

Cassian shook his head. “Did my research.” Gianna narrowed her eyes, bristling, but Beatrice hastily tucked her hand around Gianna’s arm, tugging her away. 

“Come on, Gianna. We’ll just pretend he’s not there.” 

“Besides,” Filippa said quickly, “Rome’s not that safe nowadays. Did you hear about that thing on that Sunday? Same day as our brunch? It didn’t come up in the news, but there was some big car chase through the streets around Trieste. One of my cousins saw it from his window.” 

Beatrice giggled. “Maybe it was the _mafia_ ,” she said, with an exaggerated rise of her eyebrows. 

“Why would the mafia have a car chase in some place as boring as Trieste?” Gianna sniffed. “Fine. We ignore him.” 

Pretending that Cassian wasn’t there was an impossible task, in Gianna’s opinion. Cassian clearly didn’t look like a student. He was tall, imposing, and didn’t hide how he was casing the area, nudging them away from sitting too close to the glass windows. Eventually he sat in a corner with his back to a wall, pretending to read a book. 

An hour in, Santino sent her a text. _Are you in Naples?_

Gianna tried not to roll her eyes. _Sapienza_. 

_What? I thought you were in Naples._ There was a pause, then Santino tried to call her. Thankfully, her phone was on silent. Gianna palmed it under the table, hanging up. 

_I’m in a library_ , she replied, _what the fuck_.

Santino responded by trying to call her again, so Gianna smiled, apologised to her friends, and slipped away to the bathroom. “What?” Gianna said, once within. Cassian stayed outside. 

“Salvatore Forleo is dead.” 

“So? That’s good, isn’t it?”

“The last time we killed a Forleo they went after you. I thought you were in Naples.” 

Now Gianna rolled her eyes. “So when is John going to get rid of Vito? Soon, I hope? If I have to take a vacation to Naples each time someone dies, I might as well move to Naples.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. How was the hit? Clean?” 

“Centre mass at nearly two thousand metres.” Santino was hushed, awed. “Sniper rifle from a roof.” 

“Just like that? On the first shot?”

“Cold shot missed. Second one found its mark. Outside Salvatore’s favourite pizza shop.”

“So now we only have Vito to go.” That was good news. 

Santino let out a shaky laugh. “Have you done this before? With nonna? Give orders for people to die.”

Oh. Was that it? “Not yet. Someday, likely.” Her brother was squeamish? That would be surprising. “Why?”

“It’s a strange feeling.” No, Santino didn’t sound disgusted. More… reflective?

“Strange how?”

“I never understood why you wanted to stay in Italy. To stay close to nonna, to push to be involved in the family business so early. I felt some things were outdated. Drugs are easy money, but risky. Better to keep branching out into legitimate lines, where the money is not as good, but the risk is not as bad.”

“There’s a place for that too.” When Santino didn’t answer, Gianna said, “Tell me when John is going after Vito.” 

“Yes. Be safe.” 

“Safe is boring,” Gianna said. Across the ocean, her brother laughed. 

Her good mood faded when she rounded the shelves back to the study table to find Federico seated with Filippa and Beatrice, smiling as he talked. A quick glance around indicated no apparent other non-students present. Cassian started to step forward, but Gianna held up her hand, sitting down at her books. 

“Federico here says he’s a friend of yours,” Filippa said. She was a little pale. For someone normal, she had fairly good instincts. 

Gianna sniffed. “Many men say they are friends of mine when they are not.” 

“You hurt me all the time, my dear,” Federico said, smiling toothily. “Why, our families have known each other for so very long.” 

“What do you want?” Gianna asked bluntly. 

“I thought I might come and make my bid again. Before it is too late.”

“I heard about New York. It is already too late.” 

“For my cousins, perhaps. But they are a separate family.” 

“No means no, Federico. Now go away,” Gianna said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Or I’ll call campus security. And stop harassing my friends. You know the rules.”

“We were just having a friendly chat.” 

“Actually,” Beatrice said, her voice trembling a little, “I think you’re obviously a snake. Are you stalking Gianna? I’ll call the police.”

“By all means,” Federico said, unperturbed, though he got to his feet. “I’ve never been that fond of my cousins. Particularly not the ones in America. But I don’t believe you’re prepared for the consequences.” 

“Bring it up with my father,” Gianna said, and stared pointedly at her book. Her skin crawled, listening to the chair scrape back against the table. She didn’t watch Federico go. 

Eventually, Cassian said softly, “Clear.”

“Ex-boyfriend?” Filippa asked, wide-eyed.

“Ha! He wishes.” Gianna grimaced. “More like a really gross stalker. His family sometimes does business with my family, so he thinks he’s entitled to my time. Sorry you guys had to see that.”

“If I knew he was your stalker I would have called campus police at the start,” Beatrice squeezed her hand, worried. “You didn’t tell us you had a stalker. Maybe you should file a police report. Or get a restraining order.” 

“He’s nothing. All bark, no bite.” 

All bark, no bite. Gianna spent the afternoon in the law library, reading journals, taking notes. In the evening, Claudia Ricci was dead.

#

Some sort of drama had broken out in the villa when John had been leaving, so he headed out quickly. From the villa, it was nearly an hour’s walk to a 24-hours car park where he stashed the taxi. John liked the walk. Left, right. He kept his head down and didn’t think of much.

He was about twenty minutes away from the car park when his phone rang. “Yeah.” 

“Where are you?” It was Santino.

“Out.”

“Obviously.” John checked the street address and rattled it off. Santino sounded a little confused. “What? Why… never mind. Stay out tonight. You have enough money?” 

“Yeah.” 

“In the Continental, maybe. Or a motel.”

“Something happen?”

“Could say that.”

“Because I got Salvatore?”

Santino exhaled. “Probably.”

Cycle of violence. “Still want me to get Vito?” 

“What? Yes. Of course. But—” The phone went dead. John tried turning it on a couple of times, but the battery was flat. Forgotten to charge it again. He pocketed it and kept walking. 

Santino was waiting for him in front of the car park, looking annoyed. They’d taken John’s car, Matteo driving, Santino in the back. “Get in.” 

“Something up?” John got in. 

“Did you hang up on me?”

“Phone cut out.” 

“I didn’t manage to tell you in time. Things are complicated tonight. No going after Vito Forleo until Father gives the all clear. Matteo is going to drop you and this car off at the Continental. The convoy will pick me up from there.” 

The Continental was about fifteen minutes from here. Still. “Probably shouldn’t have left home without the convoy.” 

Santino sniffed. “It takes time to gather everyone and my Father is in a certain mood today. He would want to talk first, by which time, for all I know, you might already have gone to kill Vito.” 

“Something up?” John repeated. 

“Could say that,” Santino said, as Matteo pulled into light traffic. “My cousin is dead. Claudia Ricci. Celebrated her 21st birthday not so long ago. She’d gone to Nice with her friends for a holiday. They found her on the beach. Almost unrecognisable.”

John glanced at Santino. His jaw was set, his hands clenched on his lap. “You guys close?”

“No. Didn’t like her.” Santino paused. “She adored my sister. Claudia was an only child. Not in line for succession: her grandfather was the current clan boss' brother. So she used to treat Gianna like an older sister. When she was younger, she would keep trying to come to our house.” 

Even back in the Marines, used to death, John had never been particularly good at comfort. “Sorry to hear.” 

“The Ricci family are traditionally our allies in Naples, but Giovanni Ricci’s been cold to date. My grandmother’s working on it. Can’t really blame him,” Santino said, with a curl of his mouth. “My mother was one of his nieces.”

“Heard about what happened to her,” John said, wondering if he was getting Victoria into trouble. 

“Oh yes. Normally, blood matters. You’re not meant to be able to casually just execute a…” Santino trailed off, leaning towards the front. “Matteo, where the hell are we going? This isn’t the way to the Continental.” 

Matteo braked. They were in another car park. John’s hand went for his back holster and froze. Matteo was pointing a pistol right at Santino’s face. Around them, behind parked cars, grim men in suits were coming close, armed. “You, John. Out of the car. Hands up.” 

“Matteo,” Santino began, shocked. 

“Shut up.” 

John considered his options. Making a play for the gun wasn’t going to be easy at this angle, and the other gunmen were close. He got slowly out of the car, hands up. The closest pounced, bearing him to the ground, zip-tying his hands behind his back, disarming him efficiently, confiscating his phone and crushing it. Pros. He was dragged to his feet just in time to see Santino come out of the car, hands up. 

Santino was shoved down against the trunk of the car, hands also zip-tied as he was being disarmed, phone tossed away. One of the gunmen tossed Matteo a gray phone, and Matteo checked it, answering, scuttling towards the entrance of the car park. Once his back was turned, one of the gunmen drew a bead, aiming, firing. Loud in the enclosed space. Matteo collapsed. Someone walked over, firing a second money shot to the head. 

“Santino D’Antonio,” said the gunman who had fired the first shot, once their hearing had returned. He had a Texan accent. “Vito Forleo wants to see you.” 

Santino looked more stunned about Matteo’s abrupt death than anything else. “He’s the mole? He’s been with my family since I was a child.” 

“Don’t blame him.” The Texan hauled Santino up, pushing him into the back of John’s car. “Many men will do whatever it takes to save their own children. Perhaps your father will as well.” 

To John’s surprise, instead of flinching or cringing, Santino bared his teeth. Backed into a corner, most people crumbled. Unexpectedly, Santino was one of the rare few who turned into flint. “My father? Please. He has one more child.” 

“Shut up.” The Texan slapped Santino across the face with the butt of his pistol, cracking his chin to a side. Santino was still grinning as he spat blood out of the floor. The Devil, waking. 

“I’ll remember your face, _stronzo_.” 

John stayed quiet, bundled into the car beside Santino. The Texan was driving, another gunman in the front passenger seat watching them with a gun trained on John, the car slotting into convoy out of the car park, past Matteo’s body. They’d taken his knife and his guns, but they hadn’t found some of the other habits John had picked up in Afghanistan. He stayed relaxed, fingertips easing the razor blade out from the hem of his sleeve. Careful. Slow. 

“So we are going to trade dead heirs?” Santino asked, also relaxed, but for different reasons. Defiance was all he had left, and somehow it had given him no room for fear. “How does Vito want to do it? Also a grenade launcher to the face?”

“He’ll probably let us work you over first,” the Texan said. “Like your cousin in Nice. We’ll start on your friend here. Get warmed up.” 

“Gangsters nowadays. So predictable. You people grow up watching the Godfather and don’t think about doing things logically.” When the Texan was quiet, Santino said, “Or… You look younger than most. Was your film hm, ‘Goodfellas’? ‘As far back as I remember I always wanted to be a gangster’?” 

“Do you normally talk so much or are we just lucky?” The Texan growled. 

“Just pointing out that things don’t work like they do in the movies. No one ever gets away with anything.” 

“Shut up. Or we’ll shoot you somewhere non-essential.”

“Wouldn’t that just make me louder? Cries of pain and all that. And I might bleed out. Vito would like that.” 

The gunman fired, the shot stitching a hole right next to John’s shoulder on the back seat. The Texan shouted something angrily, cuffing the gunman’s ear. John breathed out. He’d nearly cut his own wrist when he had flinched. Thankfully, that seemed enough to startle Santino into staying quiet. 

They pulled into a warehouse, eventually. John wasn’t sure how long they’d been driving. Another docks district. Symbols. The car pulled up on grimy concrete, John and Santino hauled out and frogmarched forward, shoved on their knees. 

Vito Forleo had been waiting for them. The old man sat in a chair. He looked sunken into it, pale and sallow, though from illness or some sort of debilitating grief, John couldn’t quite tell. He ground his teeth as he looked between Santino and John, his hands knotting together. “So. The man who killed my son and the heir to the clan that killed my son. Do you believe in karma, Santino?” His English was better than Massimo’s, near native.

“I believe in consequences. _My_ father doesn’t send me out on operations for a good reason. Did you take me here just to exchange small talk? Get to the point.” 

Vito’s lip curled. Then he started to laugh, phlegmy, hacking coughs of it. “You think your father will trade for you. You think _I_ will trade. Maybe. We might cripple you first. Your eyes. Your tongue.” 

“Have at it then,” Santino said, studying Vito keenly. “Do it before you die. You’re ill, old man. Is that why you’ve been hidden away in your apartment? What is it, your kidneys? Cancer? How long have you got? If we’d known that we only had to wait for you to die we would have waited.” 

“Enough.” Vito gestured. The Texan strode over to his side. “Shoot his friend in the belly.” 

A nod. The Texan walked over. The moment he was in reach, John snapped, “Get _down_ ,” and surged up, slicing through the last of the plastic. He jammed the razor blade in the Texan’s neck, jerked the pistol out of his hands as he stumbled back, shot him in the face, shot the guy closest to Santino, and lunged for the next. Keep moving, keep in close range. 

Confused, the other gunmen were backing off, Vito shouting. John shot the man he had rammed into in the gut, then in the throat, twisting to use the dead weight to absorb fire, going down on one knee with the body hauled against his shoulder, emptying his clip. One man collapsed. The other staggered as John tossed the useless gun right into his face, taking the dead man’s spare gun from a hip holster and letting the body slide to the ground. Brace, fire. Another down. 

Santino had taken cover by the car. John fired at someone on the mezzanine of the warehouse, then near the roof. Bodies dropped. Vito was being hustled out of his chair. John kicked a knife over in Santino’s direction, made a run for someone ducked behind a convoy car. People who were armed didn’t usually expect people to run right at them. Gulf, Afghanistan, some warehouse in a docks in New York, it was all the same. They got shocked, sometimes froze up. He shot a man in the temple, twisting into a fall, another in the face from his back. 

Over at John’s car, Santino had freed himself and found a gun. He was exchanging fire with someone behind another convoy car. There was a yell, Santino’s target staggering back out of sight. Vito was getting away. Old man was being hustled to a waiting convoy at the back entrance of the warehouse. John got into his car.

Santino climbed in as well, reloading. “Strap in,” John said. 

“Aren’t we—” Santino yelped as the car roared to life, swerving away from stalled convoy cars. He strapped in. They hit Vito and his escort and kept going, crashing into one of the convoy cars. Someone was screaming. John backed off, taking the car in a tight arc, slapping someone coming up behind them into a steel pillar. Santino cursed, knocking the glass out of his side window, firing as the car swerved around the convoy to the front, ramming into someone else who didn’t get out of the way in time. Santino shot another, near point blank. 

Stillness. 

Vito Forleo, amazingly, was alive. He had rolled on his back, and the stare he turned to them was full of unrepentant hatred, even through his agony. John glanced at Santino, who looked down, lip curled. “Finish the job,” Santino told him, and walked back to the car. 

Back at the car, Santino had patted down one of the bodies for cigarettes. His hands were shaky, and he glanced up as John took the lighter from him to help. “Bad habit,” John said, as Santino smoked and coughed, then smoked again.

“Fuck you.” Santino looked over the warehouse, his back pressed to John’s car. There was a familiar battlefield stink, blood and cordite, guts and smoke. 

“Probably should be getting out of here.”

Santino nodded, though he didn’t move, smoking until his fingers stopped shaking. He ground out the cigarette under his heel. John started to head to the driver’s seat, only to freeze as Santino curled his hands into his collar, pulling him down. The kiss was ashy and hard, more of a throw of a gauntlet. John curled an arm around Santino’s back, unsure what he was meant to do. Just take it? Kiss him back? Santino growled, biting him, worrying at his lower lip, as though savoring the taste and feel of John’s flesh against his teeth. He chuckled as John made a tiny sound, a strangled gasp. The Devil, laughing. 

“Get me home,” Santino said, and patted John’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://en.uniroma1.it/notizie/libraries-open-around-clock-sapienza


	7. Chapter 7

It had been tempting to head to the Continental, but Santino guessed that they’d have tried his father’s patience too far if they had. Santino tried to think about how to handle the situation, and was still thinking when John pulled up in the driveway. 

His father was waiting in the foyer, his face dark with anger. Before he could speak, Santino said quickly in Neapolitan, “Matteo was the mole. Vito Forleo is dead.” 

That shocked Massimo out of his black temper. “What?”

“Along with a quarter of his men. Another warehouse in a docks area. Looking to trade in dead heirs…” Santino trailed off, swallowing nausea. Belated shock? He’d been running on adrenaline. The crash was starting.

He flinched as Massimo embraced him tightly. “Call your grandmother and your sister. Then get some rest.”

“About John—”

Massimo patted his back, stepping away, turning to John, who watched them both, still blank. Massimo extended a palm. “So you’re the reason my son has been returned safely to me,” he said, switching to English. The anger was gone. Santino relaxed.

“He helped,” John said, shaking Massimo’s hand. Massimo clasped his wrist. 

“We need to talk, you and I,” Massimo said, smiling thinly, patting his hand. “In the morning.” 

That was safe enough. Hopefully. John loped off to his room once Massimo left, with only a brief glance at Santino. He didn’t even look affected by their near brush with death, or what came after. Santino grimaced. In the warehouse, riding adrenaline, Santino had kissed the reaper himself, felt John shudder against him, briefly more of a man than some implacable revenant. It had been exhilarating. Foolish.

He cut the rest of the plastic ties off his wrists in his room and let his grandmother lecture him for an hour, after which she started on the guilt trips. Thankfully, at that point, Gianna took over. “Yes, yes,” Santino said, before she could start. “Should have gone out with a convoy. Matteo probably saw the opportunity and couldn’t resist.” 

“Being in a convoy didn’t stop me from getting attacked. You’re really all right? Not hurt?” Gianna’s voice trembled slightly. 

“I’m fine. Gianna, you have to talk to nonna again about John. I know Father wanted to put a stay on hostilities after Claudia was killed, but—”

“We’re a bit beyond that now,” Gianna cut in. “When they called and said you were missing, they traced the tracker in your phone and found Matteo dead… Nonna nearly had a heart attack. She had to lie down. She… we’ve got the doctor over. We were convinced that you were dead. That we would find you like they found Claudia.” Gianna swallowed a sound that was uncomfortably like a sob. 

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay.” Santino made soothing sounds until Gianna finally sighed.

“I’m taking a break from Sapienza. Nonna insisted. Federico came to the law library—”

“What?”

“He was just being his usual unpleasant self. Even Filippa and Beatrice instinctively found him unpleasant.” 

“All right. You’re calling from Naples?”

“Yes, the family vineyard. I flew down when they found Claudia.” The family fortress, technically. Santino stretched against the bed, rolling onto his flank. “Nonna and I are going to talk to the Riccis again tomorrow. Then the others.” Santino let her talk business, barely listening. Afterwards, he lay on the bed, phone pressed to his chest, staring up at the ceiling. His jaw ached.

He had killed today. He had killed someone today. Santino closed his eyes, with a slow breath. Outside, the villa hummed with life, people talking, walking, passing by. The sheer mundanity of life moving on in its tracks felt grotesque. In the car, going to the warehouse, Santino had been certain that he was soon going to breathe his last, a breath that would be made while strung out in pain. Somehow he had not been afraid. Only angry that it had come to this, so early in his life. His mother had been right at the end, when she had called them all monsters. Santino set the phone aside. His dreams were breathless, roiled by sudden violence. 

Santino woke late and had breakfast alone. It was Sunday, in any case. Most people would have gone to church. He sat in the drawing room with a view of the garden with textbooks and his laptop. Going through the motions was somehow comforting, if banal. Eventually, he was summoned to his father’s study. 

It was an imposing room on the second floor, more of an office than a study, with a mahogany antique desk covered with papers and ledgers. No computers—his father didn’t trust computers. There were paintings on the walls, and shelves of books, but also the mounted heads of creatures his father had personally shot, here a tiger, there a lion, a bear, another bear. Santino had always hated the trophies. Often, when his father was at his most trying, Santino would imagine becoming head of the family, giving orders to have the trophies burned, watching as they turned to ash, with only their glass eyes remaining among the embers. 

Massimo motioned for Santino to come to his side. John was in a chair, facing the desk. Carefully, Santino didn’t look at him as he went to greet his father. “The Forleos are in disarray,” Massimo said, in English. “Not just here but in Naples.” 

“Without Salvatore, Vito, and Julian, there’s still Alberto.” The other nephew. 

“Alberto? Alberto is weak. Your grandmother can handle him with her eyes closed. More importantly, Alberto is in Italy. The Forleo operation in New York is leaderless.” 

“But still heavily staffed.” The Forleos had been here a long time. “If we want to take over Brooklyn we can start by negotiating. Some key players might be inclined to defect.” Like many other Camorra clans, The Forleo clan’s businesses were run by smaller allied organisations, a set of ‘franchises’ that mirrored legitimate companies. A hydra, not a snake. 

“Negotiation?” Massimo sniffed. “There will be no negotiation. Not after they killed Claudia Ricci. Not after they tried to kill you. And Gianna. That is an insult that can only be washed clean with blood.” He turned to John, who straightened up in his seat. “You know how to command men?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I will give you command of a few good men. Piero will talk to you outside. That apartment block in Brooklyn is their stronghold and a cornerstone of their drug business in this part of America. I want it.” Massimo glanced at Santino. “And once we have it, you will run it. With guidance, of course.” 

Santino blinked. He understood how the family business worked, had been to powerbroking meetings, watched how structures were made and kept to turn a profit, how the Camorra took care of its own. But he hadn’t expected to have to get truly involved for years. “I’ll do what I can.” 

Massimo sniffed again. Santino had said something wrong, perhaps. He made a dismissive gesture at John, who eyed them both briefly but left the room. Once John was gone, Massimo pulled out a bottom drawer, taking out a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses. He poured them a finger each. “God works in mysterious ways,” Massimo said in Neapolitan, nudging a glass over to Santino. 

God had nothing to do with this life that they led, but Santino knew better than to say so. “John is a lucky find.”

“Yes, yes. Your grandmother has said as much to me. Don’t think that I’m not aware of the game you and your sister play behind my back. Trying to push your grandmother here and there.” Massimo drank, watching until Santino drank as well. Whisky always burned on the way down.

“Father—”

“He is a lucky find. And like many lucky finds, must be managed carefully. He has to grow gradually into this world, until it is the only world he knows. If he rejects it, the consequences may be… inconvenient.” Father hated negotiating with the police.

“I can handle that.” Santino was fairly sure of that. “He’s like any other man. He has his price.”

Massimo shook his head. “You and your sister. Always with that arrogance. You are both young and think you know everything. I’ve met a lot of empty people over the years. Sometimes because of grief, sometimes drugs, violence, whatever it might be. They are dangerous because they have nothing to lose. Broken people. Because they have nothing more to live for they wait for death. Inert. Someone like John…” he trailed off, pouring himself another finger of whisky. He didn’t pour Santino any, and Santino didn’t ask. 

“So we give him something to live for.” 

Massimo snorted. “If only it would be so easy. You and your sister think I am wary of John because I do not like the unexpected. I think people who are not wary of John have bad instincts. Because he is empty he is elemental. He cannot be reasoned with because he is broken. Now we turn him on our enemies, but should he someday turn on us he will destroy us as surely as he destroyed Vito Forleo.” 

Father was growing paranoid in his old age. “I don’t think John is unreasonable. He’s not psychotic. Should he turn on us we would have had to give him a reason to do so. And the Camorra takes care of its own. Besides. He’s only one man.” 

“He’s dangerous now. But in years, given time, as he grows used to living in our world he will be a natural disaster. Once he learns to navigate it like Victoria. Learns how to use all our resources.” Massimo stared at his empty glass, turning it this way and that in the light. “A problem for your future. You and your sister.” 

“We don’t think it will come to that. John was abandoned by his country. If we don’t abandon him in turn he will respect that. What has he done so far that has given anyone any reason to doubt his good faith? Without him I would be dead.”

“There is that, of course. I am not ungrateful.”

“But you want to cut him loose?” 

Massimo shook his head. “As before, John is yours to manage. I only ask that you remain aware of the risks.”

#

Claudia’s funeral was drab, beautiful as the afternoon was. Everyone veiled, in black and white, the priest mumbling as she was lowered into the dirt in a black box. She would have hated that. Claudia loved bright colours, the brighter the better. And she had hated the life she had been born into.

Gianna and Paola were in the front row, beside the Riccis. Good sign, maybe. Gianna was beside Augusto Ricci, Giovanni’s only son, the direct Ricci heir. He was five years older than her and oversaw the Ricci’s counterfeit trade. Tall but unassuming, his hair already receding behind a high scalp, he looked like an accountant. 

Paola was busy comforting Claudia’s mother, their heads bent together. Some other women were sobbing. Giovanni stood silent as the grave was filled in. Dust to dust. 

“She often spoke kindly of you,” Augusto said, when they were making their way down to the snarl of convoy cars, around the scattered teeth of tombstones pushing up from lush grass. 

“She was a kind person.” 

“When she was a child she would make up these elaborate plans for us to ‘escape’. You, me, your brother and her. We would run away and live on a Caribbean island. Or go to the moon. Somewhere to be safe and happy, forever after.”

“I remember.” 

“But of course, to her disappointment, one by one we went into the family business. Except her. But she was still the first of us to die.” 

“And the last.” 

Augusto shook his head. “Death comes for everyone, Gianna. On a beach in Nice. On the docks, in a warehouse in New York.” 

“I don’t fear it.” Gianna glanced to a side. Paola was talking to Giovanni and Angelo Pintauro. Sofia La Torre was patting the bereaved mother’s arm. 

“We go to war,” Augusto said, following her gaze. “Even if it is not a war that we wanted.” 

“I’m sorry about Claudia.” 

“Are you?” Augusto was dispassionate, his question more like an afterthought. “In this business there is no room for weakness. She would have died sooner or later. If not in this war, then another. Alberto is running scared. With your family’s takeover of Brooklyn, his American associates are defecting. His power base in Campania is rural-based, nowhere as profitable.”

Gianna nodded. The takeover of the Brooklyn apartment block had been a bloody slog, according to her brother, but it had also been less difficult than they had expected. The defections had probably started after Vito’s death. Some of the expected inventory in Brooklyn had been missing. Rats fled sinking ships, and tried to take what they could with them. 

“My grandmother will take care of it.” 

“And now the D’Antonio clan has its foothold in America. The High Table’s seat is within your reach.” 

“It’s still being warmed by a Liveri ass.” That part was tricky. Getting rid of someone who sat at the High Table tended to have monumental consequences. It was one of the few perks of the position.

“I heard Federico tried to bid for peace.”

“If you call his repeated insults a ‘bid’, yes.” 

“He hopes to run Campania like Di Lauro once did with Naples. Spread wealth, keep everyone happy. And by doing so, retain his family’s hold on their seat. The Camorra are not like Cosa Nostra. There are big clans and small clans. Until the Liveri and the High Table, there was no pre-eminent clan.”

“And there still isn’t.” 

“There is now. At the High Table, the man who sits for the Camorra speaks for the Camorra.” 

“Or woman,” Gianna said, and smiled when Augusto glanced at her. He was the first to look away. 

“Unlike my father I don’t doubt your family’s resolve. Or yours. You have excised the Forleo clan from New York and I think you will do the same to the Liveri. But the war will be expensive.” 

“And profitable.” Gianna patted Augusto’s arm. “Like Federico, I also believe in sharing our wealth. Keeping people happy. But with my friends first. The Liveri have a healthy stake in the counterfeit trade, do they not? Cigarettes and bags.” 

“That they do.” 

“The D’Antonio family has been more traditionally involved with drugs and construction,” Gianna said. “Should a stake in the counterfeit business suddenly be at loose ends, I suppose we won’t know what to do with it.” 

“I’ll let my father know.” They were almost at the cars. Augusto paused, so abruptly that Gianna kept walking a couple of steps before she noticed and turned around. “I heard a rumour. From New York. Is it true that Salvatore, Vito, and Julian were all killed by the same man?” 

“A recent addition to our team, yes.” 

“Interesting,” Augusto said. He escorted Gianna to her car, where Cassian was in the driver’s seat. Eventually, Paola got in, and they pulled away in convoy. 

“How was Augusto?” Paola asked, once they were in traffic.

“The same. Devastated over the loss of his cousin. Not. He’s always been a bit of a cold bastard.” 

“You’re hardly devastated yourself.”

“I don’t get sad. I get even. If we find out who did that to her, once I get my hands on them—”

“Giovanni is working on that. It’s not our problem. We have different problems.”

“Alberto? Really? He counts as a problem?”

“No. Gennaro Liveri. He’s been trying to bid for peace. He and the son. They know most clans don’t want to get into all out warfare. Bad for business. And the police start to get all sorts of ideas when too much blood gets spilled. So they have been offering… incentives. A cut of a business here, a street there.” 

“Fuck him. The Liveri made their money with waste disposal contracts. Because they dump the waste where they like they’ve poisoned the water. And their people. They’re vultures.” 

“We are all vultures, girl. Trying to claim any moral high ground in this business is laughable at best, tedious at worst. This world is a kingdom for vultures, picking meat from the other world and calling it wealth.” Paola scowled out of her window. “Bad business, with that child. So young.” 

“Claudia never wanted any part of this world.” 

“I think we spoil our children. And by doing so, we ruin them. Your brother, driving around without a convoy. You, thinking you are safe in Rome.”

Gianna bristled. “Or what? We live like rats? In fear? Besides, what happened to Santino was unexpected. Matteo’s been around since I was a girl. Nonna,” she said, clasping her grandmother’s hands. “I know you fear for us. But we _are_ no longer children. We must live in this world. If we fear it and run, we die.” 

“Yes, yes,” Paola slapped at Gianna’s knuckles, glowering at her. “I know that. Of course we will not hide. Your father and I think it’s about time the two of you were involved. Properly involved. Your brother is handling the takeover of the Forleo distribution. You will handle Alberto.” 

Gianna tried to hide her surprise. “Alberto?”

“Alberto Forleo. Pay attention, girl. You know how the system works in Campania. So work within the system. Don’t turn the streets into rivers of blood.” 

“Yes, nonna.” Gianna sat back, already calculating plans of attack. She’d have to start by talking to—

“And how have you been going with Casper over here?”

“Cassian, nonna. We’re fine.”

“Do you still need him around?”

This was Paola’s way of telling Gianna she was off the hook. She glanced at Cassian, who met her eyes briefly in the rearview window. His expression was neutral. “He can be annoying. But I suppose he has his uses,” Gianna said. Cassian was watching the road, but she could see that he smiled faintly. 

“Good. I think you might need him in the days to come. And besides, he _was_ highly recommended by that nice boy, Caesar, and I’ve never had cause to doubt his judgment.”

“Julius, nonna.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More about the Camorra:  
> Older article about Camorra structure: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/non_fictionreviews/3670541/Inside-the-Camorra-the-other-Italian-mafia.html
> 
> Also this hilarious article: https://www.economist.com/news/business/21705858-crime-families-naples-are-remarkably-good-business-mafia-management
> 
> Traditional Camorra clans don’t have a pyramidal structure like Cosa Nostra: there are lots of clans that act independently of each other and fight among themselves, no pre-eminent boss family etc. In John Wick canon that’s not the case: there’s clearly a ‘boss’ family (as of John Wick: Chapter 2, it’s the D’Antonios) which represents the Camorra at the High Table. So this fic will follow canon rather than reality ;3 Or try to.
> 
> The waste problem is actually a thing http://www.thedailybeast.com/mafia-holds-rome-hostagewith-garbage  
> http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/mafia-toxic-waste-dumping-causes-higher-cancer-and-death-rates-in-naples-a6794236.html


	8. Chapter 8

“Spoils of war,” Santino said facetiously, as they turned on the lights in the brownstone. He wandered over to the black leather couch, settling into it and checking his phone. “Go on. Take a look around.” 

It was a nice house. Not too far from the D’Antonio villa. Nice district, quiet. Small garden of manicured plants that John would have no idea how to maintain, accessed through a walkway that ran behind the circle of couches and armchairs. There was a sleek kitchen, a living room with a large tv, paintings. A stairwell led up to a guest room, a study and a bedroom, all already fitted out with impersonally beautiful furniture, right out of a magazine. The stairwell also led down into a garage, which had a panic room that had been converted into a very particular sort of workshop. There was space for two cars, empty for now. Aurelio had made sad seal noises when he had come by the villa to pick up the car for repairs. 

“Whose house was this?” John asked, once he got back upstairs.

“One of Victoria’s friends. He was retiring from the life. Decided to go fishing in Maldives. Put his house up for sale. You like it?” 

“You can retire?” 

“Obviously. Easier prospect for freelancers. Slightly more complicated in clans, but yes. People get old.” 

“I like the house,” John decided. He’d sensed a trick floor in the closet, another in the mezzanine. The walls of the bedrooms had been hand-painted, a little unevenly, not by a pro. Someone had loved this house, tricks and all. 

“Good. It’s yours.” Santino tossed him the keys. “And the car, whenever that gets back from Aurelio. We’ll have your gear moved here. You want another car until the first car is fixed, talk to Aurelio, get him to put it on our tab.” 

“I didn’t mind the room.”

“What, because of the free food?” Santino scowled. “You have money now, John. You want food, presumably you’re capable of buying some.”

“No, it’s just.” John gestured at the house. “All this. Generous.”

“You’ve more or less singlehandedly gotten rid of one of our rivals in New York,” Santino pointed out, tossing his phone on the couch, leaning up on his knees, his elbows over the back. “We’re not ungrateful.”

Santino really was seriously pretty. Like this, arched over the back of the couch in a white cuffed shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, those tight black jeans over his ass… the kiss in the warehouse had probably meant nothing, John had decided afterwards. Adrenaline did funny things to people and Santino hadn’t looked his way before—or since. Besides—

“Eyes up here,” Santino said, very dryly. Oops. Thankfully, embarrassment was generally a foreign concept to John, even after getting caught staring at someone’s ass, nice as it was. Santino beckoned. John took a step closer, coming all the way within reach when Santino beckoned again, more impatiently. Fingers twisted in his tie, bearing him down, John bracing himself against the back of the couch. Santino didn’t close the distance for a kiss, John didn’t push. 

“Usually,” Santino said, stroking his thumb over the knot of John’s tie, “‘pretty’ is not something you call a man.” 

“Didn’t seem to piss you off.” 

Santino chuckled, low and husky. This was a game he had played before, and a game that John didn’t understand. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

In the Marines John had scratched the itch whenever he needed to the way many of the rest of the rest of his squad did, by paying for the service. He wasn’t sentimental about it, nor had the people he had paid been sentimental about it. Kisses were generally symptoms of sentiment. “You want me to?” 

“That’s not what I asked.” Santino’s eyes were wide and dark, and he smiled the way he had smiled in the car, when freshly bruised. _I’ll remember your face, stronzo_. John took in a slow and shaky breath. Lust, like this, always blindsided him, an aching throb in his gut, an ugly wound. 

“Yeah,” John whispered, expecting nothing. Santino like this was a gift, made for richer people than the likes of John. 

“Come on, then,” Santino said, still grinning, and if this was some sort of game then John had never cared about rules. He leaned in. It was a fumbling kiss, because John was out of practice and because he’d thought Santino was actually going to pull back. Santino made a grumbling sound and kissed him back, taking control, licking into his mouth, hands clenched in his shirt. 

“L’uomo nero,” Santino said, when they parted for breath. “Some of the more traditional clans, they get a man to declare loyalty by bending the knee. Kissing a ring.” 

“You don’t wear any rings.”

Santino laughed. “I’m not that traditional. There are better ways to be sure of someone.” He kissed John again, a lingering, lazy kiss, a lover’s kiss, meant to tease. Then Santino adjusted John’s tie, patting his cheek. “Enjoy the new house.” 

Tease.

John did like the new house. Victoria was amused by it, at least, when she arrived later in the evening with wine, a large wrapped packet, and a dour, thin man in tow. “John, this is Marcus, a dear friend of mine.” 

“Nice to meet you, Marcus.” Marcus had a firm handshake and trigger calluses. He gave John a quick, practiced once over, then the house. Casing it. Another fixer? 

“Yes, before you ask,” Victoria said, “he’s one of us.” 

Marcus sighed. He also had a wrapped bottle, though he left it on the kitchen table. “We’re not the same. The new guy is affiliated and we’re both freelancers.”

“Please, like you aren’t very special friends with the Tarasovs.” 

“Says the woman with a known preference for taking contracts from the Italians.” 

Victoria sighed. It was a playful sound, full of old affection. “Oh, very well. I’ll admit it. I do have a weakness for well-dressed men.”

“So why am I here?” Marcus said, wandering out into the living room, glancing up. “By the way, new guy, I bought you a bottle of whisky. It was the first on the rack, so it probably isn’t great. But there’s nothing like it for disinfecting wounds. Can’t go wrong with Doctor whisky.” 

“You’re here because you’re as nosy as Winston and you were dying to know what happened to James’ house. Besides, it’s not a proper housewarming party with just two people. Does the microwave work? I made lasagna.” 

“ _You_ made it? You can cook?” 

Victoria pursed her lips. “Well yes. I can cook. Because I am a functional human being. Unlike certain people, it seems.” 

“We’re going to die,” Marcus predicted, and slouched gloomily into an armchair. 

The microwave worked, and the lasagna, in John’s opinion, was excellent. Victoria smiled when he told her so. They found wine glasses in the cabinet and broke out her bottle, which duly revived Marcus’ mood. 

“So what’s it been like so far?” Marcus asked, partway down his first glass. “I mean. I’m from what the Tarasovs like to think of as the ‘old guard’. Me, Victoria, James, Rita, Frank, Annalise, Yang… we’re all ex-CIA or MI6 or Mossad or SAS or whatever. We used to be fixers for our countries and now we’re fixers for hire. Years in the trenches.” 

“Oh, don’t you start with your moaning,” Victoria said, with a sigh. “You’d turn into an old man before your time. Which is terribly depressing to watch, because I’m older than you are.” 

“It’s all the new people coming in nowadays,” Marcus grumbled. “In _my_ day, you couldn’t take contracts unless you’ve proved yourself. Now all you need is a goddamned phone and a gun. People who call themselves ‘assassins’ are everywhere. Like a fucking rash.” 

“Life seems okay so far,” John said. “More action than the Marines.” 

“I remember what that was like.” Marcus took a sip of his wine. “Endless periods of nothing and then a sudden, sharp rain of shit.” 

“You were from the Marines?” Marcus didn’t have that look.

“No. Weren’t you listening? CIA.” 

“1980s? Iran Contra?” 

“Ha! No. Actually worse. Operation Cyclone. Among other things. That really came back and bit us in the fucking ass.” 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” John said, polishing off his latest lasagna portion. “Did time in Afghanistan.” 

“Post 9/11?” At John’s nod, Marcus sighed. “I was out by then. Had enough. Bought a nice house and decided to self-medicate with Doctor Whisky.”

“Men are _so_ dramatic.” Victoria scooped more lasagna onto John’s plate. “I don’t know why you people think women are emotional. After _I_ retired, I didn’t feel sorry for myself or enter some sort of alcoholic spiral of despair. I learned flower arranging, and cooking, and renovated my house.”

“And then started shooting people again,” Marcus said. “Within the year.” 

“ _You_ lasted a year and a half.” 

“It’s a terrible habit.” Marcus poured himself more wine, and stared sadly into the glass. “They should make patches for it. The way they do for cigarettes.” 

Afterwards, as John washed dishes and Marcus was in the bathroom, Victoria leaned across the kitchen counter. “Careful dear. Remember what I said about making a splash.”

“This is you giving me a warning?” John hoped not. He liked Victoria. He even rather liked Marcus, depressing as Marcus was. 

“No. But the way you’re going, it might just be a matter of time.” 

“I don’t pick my targets.” 

“I know, dear. But you should be more careful about your methods.” 

“What’s wrong with my methods?” He shot people and people died. 

Victoria sighed. “I see I have my work cut out for me. I have a job next Wednesday, if you’d like to come.” 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll pick you up from here. Around four. It’ll be interstate.” Victoria glanced up when Marcus came out of the bathroom. “And you could go along with Marcus on his jobs too.”

Marcus raised his hands. “Nope. No. I’m not a fucking babysitter.” 

“Come on. You could use the company.” 

“The Tarasovs will probably get shitty about it and I’d rather not get blacklisted. I like the Russians. You sit with them, drink vodka, and they put their cards on the table. They want to stab you, they’ll tell you first to your face. None of these secret handshake cloak and dagger shit like the Italians. You can’t trust people who wake up everyday and dress like they’re going to a funeral.” 

“Don’t want to trouble anyone,” John said, drying off glasses. 

“See? What a nice, polite boy.” Victoria frowned at Marcus. “Don’t be so difficult.”

“This ‘nice, polite boy’ razed the Forleo holdings in Brooklyn to the ground,” Marcus growled. “But I guess,” he added grudgingly, “as a _favour_ to Victoria, if you ever got a question or something, and she isn’t around, fine. You can maybe call me.” 

“Well done,” Victoria said admiringly. “You actually sounded like a normal person.” 

“Don’t. Push it.”

#

Gennaro Liveri descended on New York, an event marked with much fanfare and the summoning of other Camorra clans with American stakes to the Continental for a party. The significance wasn’t lost on Santino. Few clans had the wealth to casually host an event in a Continental, or the influence to demand such a meet.

Santino stood behind his father, trying not to look _too_ curious. Or young. With the Forleos conspicuously missing, Santino was the youngest of the next generation in the meet, heir-apparent or not. The closest to his age was Iacopo Farina, near ten years apart, talking quietly with Marco la Torre. Chicago-based. There were a scattering of other smaller clans with foothold interests. Servers darted gracefully around the room with champagne and fingerfood. Even the Manager had descended from his office, chatting amiably with Gennaro and Federico for a moment before circling to other guests.

Gennaro was tall, with a hatchet of a face. He smiled as Massimo and Santino approached. “Massimo. It has been too long. You’ve met my son, Federico.” 

“A long time ago.” Everyone shook hands. 

“Federico tells me that he recently ran into your daughter, Gianna, at Sapienza,” Gennaro said. “She must be doing well.”

Santino tried not to tense. Massimo didn’t even flinch. “Oh yes. She enjoys the study of law. Her grandmother thinks it is a waste of time.” 

“A law degree is not a waste of time. It hones certain instincts. Or so I’ve been told.” Gennaro lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. “But the proximity to those who will someday be our great enemies, I am not so sure.” 

“Or allies.” Massimo said. “Not even the Camorra can avoid using lawyers.” 

“Speaking of alliances.” Gennaro glanced at Santino, then at Federico. “Perhaps the young people should go and have a drink and talk about things that young people talk about, while the old people bore each other with business.”

It was a clear dismissal. Santino looked to Massimo, who nodded. Somewhat annoyed, Santino managed a smile as halfhearted as the dismissal and slunk off quickly, looking for Marco and Iacopo. He hadn’t really expected Federico to follow, and as such was exasperated to find him on his tail. 

“Your sister grows more beautiful with every year,” Federico said, grinning. 

Santino bared his teeth in return. “Of course. Too beautiful for the likes of you.”

“Ouch.” Federico passed a hand over his heart. “The brother and the sister, both the same.” 

“Not really. The sister is fiercer. As you would have noticed, if you hadn’t been thinking with your cock.” 

“Fierce enough to be named heir instead of you?” 

That brought Santino up short. He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” 

“She’s confident that she will be your father’s heir. Surely you can tell that your grandmother loves her more.” 

That had always stung, even though Santino knew it wasn’t a zero sum game, especially after their mother had died. Nonna would just as willingly take a bullet for either of her grandchildren. Still. “Don’t you have other disinterested women to pester?” He smirked. “Maybe you should go to places where you can offer to pay.” 

“Why does your father want this war?” Federico asked abruptly. “Now, of all times? Because he is ill? Surely it is not for your sake. Or your sister’s sake. Your family is rich and would have grown richer in Naples. If you wanted a stake in America, America is fat enough for all of us.” 

“Why does your father want this war?” Santino retorted. “Your family is rich and your stake in America makes you richer. Why do you want to warm a seat that you think is not worth fighting over?” 

“ _I_ don’t want a war,” Federico said. His voice had dropped, just for Santino’s ears. “Not over a goddamned symbol. I think life is better for the Camorra when everyone is rich and no one is painting the streets with blood. The police are happy, the people are happy, everyone is happy.”

“Even the happy people who happen to live near all the lands where your father and his father before him dumped tonnes of toxic waste, hm?” 

Federico raised his eyebrows. “Is that the reason? Please. Your family does not come to this with clean hands. Hardly white knights.” 

“I’ve always found stories about knights boring.” 

“And what would your family do about the waste? The damage is done. The money still comes. And you’ve seen Rome. Without the mafia to handle disposal, the city’s streets choke. The Italian government, pah. The state is fat and corrupt and quarrels with itself. Without us, many things in Italy would not function.” 

“My family would remember that what we do is a business,” Santino said, selecting champagne from a tray. “We are not trying to govern. We do not rule like kings. We provide services and goods and turn a profit. And we do not poison civilians en masse.” 

“You speak as though your family doesn’t run most of the drug trade in Naples.”

“The Camorra have been in Italy before there was ‘Italy’. We have kept order sometimes when there is no order. When the police come for us the people often defend us. There is a reason they do that. Fear may buy silence but it cannot buy loyalty. My grandmother calls the Camorra vultures. But even carrion-eaters have their place. I know exactly what _we_ are.” Santino looked Federico up and down. “And I know exactly what you are. Parasites.” 

Federico curled his lip. “This world we live in has two rules only. We haven’t broken them.” 

“Maybe there should be more.” Santino nodded at Federico. “It was not really a pleasure to meet you, Federico. Don’t talk to my sister again.” 

“That true?” Marco asked behind him, when Federico had glowered and stormed off. “About why your family is picking this fight?” 

“What do you think?”

“My mother was wondering if there was some sort of reason behind this sudden ambition. Your family’s never even bothered to expand beyond Italy before.” 

“If expansion wasn’t a requirement for a seat on the Table, we probably wouldn’t have.” Securing a foothold in a foreign country, with foreign rules of engagement, was far more cost-intensive than even Massimo had predicted. Santino had not been exaggerating when he had called John a lucky find. Without John, the war with the Forleos would have stretched for years, and a war with the Liveri, even longer. His father might not have lived long enough to be seated, let alone enjoy the perks. 

“So this is the reason? Have you people been planning it since that Lancet report? ” 

“Profit is the reason. Tell your mother that.” It had also been the reason that Massimo had told Paola and Gianna. This was why Santino was sure that he was the heir. It was the first secret between him and his sister. The true declaration of war from his father, made privately: _even for the strongest of the Camorra there must be consequences_. Profit was still a reason. But it was not the only reason. 

“Whatever you say.” Marco finished the last of his glass, placing it on a tray. “I’ll tell her I intend to back you in Chicago. If your people start to make a move in New York, we will as well.” 

“Good to hear.”

“It’ll be good for us.” Marco grinned at him. “Morals are all very well, but a man must eat. If we can grow fatter while others grow thinner, all the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why John doesn’t have the same house in this ‘verse:  
> John’s house is seriously big, designery, and full of his wife’s stuff. And other than the buried case at the basement it isn’t obviously an assassin’s house. On the other hand, given how his not!friend of a cop was totally unsurprised to see it filled with dead bodies… it may or may not have already been John’s house pre-Helen, but I kinda doubt it. It doesn’t exactly feel like the kind of house John would have chosen just for himself. It’s more like a retirement house, which is why he poured concrete over that case in the basement. 
> 
> http://www.earthisland.org/journal/index.php/elist/eListRead/coping_with_naples_toxic_waste_crisis/


	9. Chapter 9

They found Alberto Forleo in a bunker, hidden in the forest close to the rural town that the Forleos had controlled for over a century. Nice town. Gianna sat at the lip of the stone fountain in the town’s square, Cassian beside her. He was visibly unhappy, even with the town shuttered, the local folk in hiding, and D’Antonio retainers providing blanket security.

“Calm down,” Gianna told him, as she sipped at a glass of local red. “Or your frown will freeze on your face.” 

“Is there really a need for all this?” Cassian asked, though he kept his voice low, and his mouth barely moved. 

“Area secure, right?”

“As secure as we can make it. Ma’am.”

“Oh, speak your mind.” Gianna took another sip.

“Is all this grandstanding really necessary?”

“Cassian. I’m disappointed in you.” 

Cassian let out a tiny sigh. “Okay, ma’am. If you don’t actually want to hear my opinion then I won’t say it.” 

“You’re going to tell me that all this showboating is just going to get me killed. Yes?” At Cassian’s faint nod, Gianna chuckled. “So much about what we do _is_ about style. The way we dress, the way we work. We live particularly ugly lives. It would be unbearable without a bit of dressing.” 

“Could cry into your bags of drug money.” 

“How terrifyingly American.” 

“See the bell tower of that old church?” Cassian nodded at the distance. “Good sniper could pick us off from there. Hell, a well-thrown grenade from one of the windows of that cute cafe we’re next to would do the trick. Or a big truck charging down one of these roads.” 

“And so the church is watched, this cute cafe is watched, and we’ll be able to see a big truck coming. Yes?”

“Yes,” Cassian conceded. “But there are wetwork specialists out there who are pretty creative. You’re tempting fate.”

“That what happened to your last ward? They tempted fate?” When Cassian only tilted his head, Gianna waved her glass playfully at him. “Come now. My grandmother wouldn’t have hired you—even temporarily—if you weren’t any good. So you’re good. If you’re good, then you must have parted ways with your previous ward for one of two reasons. Either they died or they let you go, and I doubt anyone who could afford you for a serious purpose would consider that.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not intended to be a compliment. Pay attention.”

“They died.” Cassian looked away. “Not my fault. Not their fault either. That’s the funny thing about life. One moment you can be pretty healthy, doing nothing more strenuous than walking a dog, next moment.” He snapped his fingers. Gianna flinched, and was annoyed that she flinched. 

“Heart attack?” 

“Had a stroke.” Cassian appeared pensive. “Third leading cause of death in the States, I heard. Behind heart disease and cancer.” 

“Life can be cruel that way.”

“Nah.” Cassian flashed her a faint smile. “He was a major asshole. ‘Course, I would still have stepped in front of a gun for him. Part of the job. Rest his soul.” 

“And what do you think about me?” Gianna grinned. “Go on. Be honest.” 

“I kinda like you.” Cassian said, after a moment’s pause. “But sometimes I’m not really sure why.” 

Gianna started to laugh. She sobered up at the approaching sound of an engine. Cassian straightened up, his hands loose at his side. It was a white van, trundling into town, rolling to a stop at a respectful distance. The panel door opened, and two D’Antonio retainers stepped out, armed with rifles. Another two within pushed out someone with his hands bound to his back in zip ties, a pale man with a birth mark across his left cheek and wild gray eyes. Alberto was frogmarched closer to the fountain and shoved to his knees. 

“Bunker in the forest?” Gianna said, sipping her wine. “Not how I would have liked to go. So I thought we should have a chat somewhere… more respectable.”

Alberto smiled. It was a crooked smile, the smile of a man staring at death and long past fear. “Empires rise and fall, girl. Someday death will also come for you.”

“If she does, it’ll be at a manner of my choosing.” Gianna tipped her glass at Alberto. “How did Claudia Ricci die?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Gianna sighed. “Somebody hurt him.” 

One of the retainers stepped forward and broke Alberto’s little finger with a sharp twist. He screamed. Claudia waited until the cry died down to a little sob. “Let’s try again. How did Claudia Ricci die?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Come on. Easy question. Even I know how she died, and I’m neither a Ricci, a Forleo, nor a Liveri. Hurt him again.”

The retainer stepped forward. Alberto flinched to the side. “All right! She was killed in Nice! Left on a beach!” 

“How?” 

“Torture! It was torture.” 

“She was twenty-one.” Gianna swirled the wine in her glass. “But not for long. Do you know, they’re not sure whether she bled out first or if it was organ failure or something else. Her mother doesn’t want to know. Didn’t really want to do a full autopsy. But I want to know. I want to know exactly what was done to her. Because I remember my debts.”

“I don’t know who killed her.” 

“What about the attack on me in Rome?” 

“T-That was us. But you would’ve gone through our retainers. On your way to me. And my uncle called many of them to Brooklyn. Reinforcements. After Salvatore. He thought y-you would try to kill him next.” 

“He was right about that. Though. Not in the way that he would have preferred.” Gianna smiled. “Come on, Alberto. You know how this ends. Why bother to protect anyone? I think you know who killed Claudia. Who else would bother?” 

“Blood feud ends with us. That’s good for everyone.” Alberto was growing more and more pale. “The war ends and there can be peace.” 

“Peace? Don’t make me laugh. If we don’t know who killed Claudia, how can there be peace?” Gianna waited, but Alberto made no answer. “Who _are_ you protecting? Wife? No wife, I heard. Children?” Alberto looked away. “Oh-h-h. Congratulations. My grandmother thought that you were the last of the Forleos.”

“They don’t know who their father is. I send money sometimes. Please. They aren’t a part of this life.”

“‘Please’,” Gianna said mockingly, looking at her glass. “I think Claudia probably begged. She would have begged.” She narrowed her eyes over the glass. “I think I _am_ curious after all. Was it organ failure or was it the bleeding? How long did she take to die? Maybe we should recreate the procedures on you. It’ll be an experiment. We can all be enlightened.” She sipped her wine as Alberto snivelled and sobbed and eventually broke. 

“The Liveri did it,” Alberto said very softly. “They wanted to make the Ricci regret allying themselves with your family. Scare the other friendly Camorra clans away.” 

“I know the Liveri did it,” Gianna growled. “I want to know _who_.” 

Alberto stared at the stone, breathing hard. “You want to know? You want to know how she died?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a video. There will be. Federico Liveri will have it. He has videos of these things. Of people who crossed the Liveri. I know because he showed one to Julian. Julian thought it was funny. Funny!” Federico let out a bitter laugh. “God. We are all monsters.” 

“Some of us are bigger than others,” Gianna said. She nodded at one of her retainers. The gunshot cracked across the town square, Alberto’s blood soaking old stone. Gianna finished her glass and set it aside. “Trace those payments. I want his children found. If they truly knew nothing of their father, have them transferred to one of our towns. I want them watched.”

“You’ll protect them from the Liveri?” Cassian asked, surprised. 

“If the Liveri come for them, that’ll save us the trouble of ferreting them out.” Gianna got to her feet, surveying the town. “Where is the mayor?” 

Eventually, someone marched out a skinny old man from a side street. He had sweated through his shirt, his smile forced, fingers twisting over each other as he greeted her. “You’re the mayor?” Gianna asked brusquely. He nodded. “I’ll like you to spread a message on my behalf. The Forleos are no more. But the arrangement that their clan had with your town, that we would like to continue. The people who worked for them can now work for us. The people who found them generous, why, we can also be generous. On the same terms. No hard feelings. After all. This is business.”

“That’s… that’s kind of you,” the mayor said, trying not to look at Alberto’s body. 

“But of course,” Gianna said, smiling, “should we find instead that the remnants of the Forleo clan decided to make their own clan, or worse, join our enemies? We will come back to this beautiful little town. We will lock everyone in their homes. Then I will personally set fire to each building. One by one. Until your town is ash. Do we have an understanding?”

“Y-yes. Yes signora.” 

“Good! Very good. We look forward to your response. Tommaso and some of his friends here will stay back while you spread the news. I hope we will not have to meet again, friend.” 

“What next?” Cassian asked, when Gianna got into the sedan. 

“Now we go back and talk to my grandmother.” 

“And then? Federico Liveri is in New York.”

“And then,” Gianna said, glancing out of the window at the fountain and the empty glass, “I think my darling brother has probably missed me, and could do with another visit from his big sister.”

#

John had never had to cast his own bullets before, but he found the experience weirdly calming. Whoever ‘James’ had been, he had probably been mildly obsessive. The workbench still had all of its tools and materials, some of them labelled in neat boxes. John had found a video online, watched it, tried calling Victoria with a question, reached an answering machine, called Marcus, and somehow Marcus ended up coming over, complaining all the while about how ‘young people’ didn’t understand craftsmanship nowadays.

“Okay, this set’s not that fucked up. Possibly usable.” The heavy-duty ventilation in the workshop churned and roared. Marcus had pushed up his respirator mask, looking over the fresh bullets from the mold. “Fewer rejects.” 

“Some people do this for all their ammo?” 

“ _I_ do,” Marcus said, with a scowl. “I don’t subscribe to the ‘M134 in a carpark’ school of fun.”

“Victoria said it was a question of symbols and style.” 

“Pah. She’s been hanging around the Italians for too long, that’s what I always tell her. You start getting funny ideas about canaries and severed hands and shit. Maybe even turning Catholic.” Marcus rolled his eyes. “They have this funny system in Rome where contractors have to talk to the Vatican if you want to shoot someone in Rome? A fucking formality, apparently. What the fuck? I refuse to operate in Rome.” 

“So what do you prefer to do?” John asked. “When you work?” 

“I believe in fewer bullets the better, longer range the better. Surgical. Neat. So yes. If you’re looking for absolute accuracy, there’s nothing like bullets you made yourself.” 

“Higher caliber stuff I get. But what about small arms? You make bullets for your pistols and such too?” 

“Well, if I _have_ to,” Marcus said, wrinkling his nose. “All my gear is custom. As is Victoria’s, even if she can’t be bothered casting her own bullets. But yes. I do cast shells for everything I use. I mean. What the hell else do you do with your time? Or are the Italians working you that hard?”

“Not really.” John had a lot of downtime. Santino checked in on him sometimes, by phone or dropping by after a class, but generally he had been left to his own devices. He’d spent it walking around the area. Doing things he’d never had the time or money for before, like going to the cinema. “You spend your downtime making bullets?” 

“I also drink, read, and contemplate the pointlessness of life. Sometimes all at the same time, if I feel like multitasking. You’re—” Marcus held up a palm, glancing up. There was the sound of the door opening, a familiar patterned tread. John shook his head slightly, and Marcus relaxed. He was sorting through the newly cast bullets when Santino came down the stairs, blinking as he noticed Marcus beside John at the work bench. 

“This is Marcus,” John said, before hostilities could break out. 

“I know who he is.” 

“Santino D’Antonio, right?” Marcus scooped up the flawed bullets into a jar, then pulled off the spare gear he was wearing and left it on the workbench. “Relax. No one’s poaching anyone, shooting anyone, or whatever. Guess I’ll be on my way. Since someone forgot to tell me that his boss was going to be dropping by. Seriously, new guy. This is how people get shot by accident. For your future reference.” 

“Sorry.” John had actually forgotten. Handling molten metals for the first time tended to do that to a person. Even with the small pour lead furnace cooling and ventilation on high, the workshop was hot. 

Marcus pulled a face at him and headed to the stair, circling around Santino. He paused. “Do you mind letting your friends outside know that I’m heading out? Hate getting into shootouts in the middle of the afternoon.” 

Santino called someone on his phone. Marcus left. No shootout. Belatedly, John got to his feet, even as Santino eyed the table with some surprise. “Casting your own bullets? What for?”

“Got curious.” John pulled off the heavy gloves and mask, leaving them on the bench. “Need something?” 

Santino wrinkled his nose. “I was thinking about it, but now you probably stink.” 

That was a fair appraisal. John was wearing a thin t-shirt that had already stuck to his skin. He wasn’t sure whether to apologise. As he was thinking about it, Santino stepped over anyway, picking up one of the fresh bullets, turning it over in his fingers. John waited. Usually, Santino would ask a brusque series of questions and leave, made busier than ever since the Forleo takeover. 

“Why was Marcus here?” He sounded annoyed.

“I had a question about casting. Video wasn’t too clear.” 

“You could have called the villa. Someone would have known.”

That hadn’t actually occurred to John. “I tried calling Victoria.”

“Her? She’s probably in Chesapeake right now. Generally doesn’t answer her phone during downtime. Known fact.”

Victoria hadn’t said anything of the sort to John. “Ah.” 

Santino frowned at him. “Marcus works for the Tarasovs.” 

“He said he’s a freelancer.” 

“He’s near exclusive. Not quite the same.” Santino dropped the bullet back on the table.

“He wasn’t trying to talk me into working for the Russians. He knows I work for your clan.” 

“For my clan?” Santino folded his arms, grinning, abruptly dangerous again. “Or for me?” 

“Is there meant to be a difference?” 

“What do you think?” Santino asked. 

Before John could come up with a response, Santino had stepped closer, his grin widening, leaning up for a teasing nip on John’s lower lip. Daring John to push. Again with the rules John couldn’t read. So he pushed. He hauled Santino up onto the cleanest edge of the workbench, where John just made bullets to spend in his name. Santino laughed, bracketing John’s hips with his long legs, his arms resting over John’s shoulders. John set his palms on either side of Santino’s hips.

“I think you want one,” John said, trying to parse the clues. “A difference, that is.”

Santino smiled. He leaned over, the kiss more of a chaste peck, though he didn’t pull back. “I know you’re going interstate with Victoria tonight. Two days, was it?”

“You said I could go.”

“Of course. What’s the point of paying for a mentor if you don’t actually use the mentor?” Santino grinned; John could feel its imprint against his cheek. “I thought I might come by and give you a reason to miss me.” 

This time the kiss was slower, lazy, Santino leading at first, pressing close, then letting John try. Santino’s lips were soft, oddly yielding like this; his mouth was tart from something he had eaten, and John chased the taste clumsily on his tongue, against his lips. He was all too aware that this was a performance, of sorts, one far gentler than what he was used to giving. He was all too aware that he _did_ stink, that he was being clumsy, that he wasn’t too sure what he should or could be doing with his hands. 

The contradictions confused him. This wasn’t like the kisses before, somehow, which John had understood in terms of trade. This ached as well, but in an unfamiliar way, his chest constricting, throat clenching up. He was getting hard, but it felt unimportant. John found himself clutching at Santino’s hips, running his palms down graceful thighs. He moaned, a sound closer to pain. He wanted more. 

It was over too quickly. Santino pulled back. He chuckled when John made a low, strangled sound of protest. “Something to remember me by.” He pushed at John’s shoulder, and John stepped back reluctantly. Santino straightened his clothes, dusting off his pants, checking his sleeves. 

“Won’t your father…” John trailed off. He’d overstepped, maybe. Santino glanced up sharply, the mood obviously souring. 

“Find out?” 

“Mind.” 

“Ah. Yes. I suppose he would.” Santino’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “But my father doesn’t know everything about me, thank God. Or my sister. We prefer to keep it that way.” He tilted his head. “Does it matter?” 

“No.” 

“Good. What’s the point of living if you don’t gamble a little?” Santino started to head to the stairwell. “Enjoy your little trip. When you’re back, there’ll be work to be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I would link the BBC version of the article, but this Daily Mail one had a hilarious headline: “Inside the underground Mafia bunker decked out with guns, tomatoes and ricotta” Ahahah. I guess if I also had to be on the run I would also run away with tomatoes and ricotta   
> http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3423425/Inside-underground-Mafia-bunker-decked-guns-tomatoes-ricotta-police-arrested-two-Italy-s-dangerous-fugitives.html


	10. Chapter 10

“Really?” Santino said, when Gianna got out of the sedan, retainers hurrying over from the house to unload her luggage. “How the hell did you talk nonna into this?”

A faint, fleeting curl of the mouth was all the warning Santino got before Gianna rushed over and hugged him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re alive!” She ignored his indignant squirming, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing dramatically. There were actual tears, too, soaking into his collar. Her hands locked around his back, preventing him from flinching away.

Somewhat alarmed, Santino was trying to carefully pry his sister off when their father appeared at his elbow, looking grave and making awkward comforting noises. He patted Gianna on the shoulder and looked Santino in the eye. “Take care of your sister,” Massimo said gruffly, and headed back into the villa in a dignified retreat, their father’s general reaction to feminine tears, at least when said tears came from people he was related to. 

Amazing.

“It fucking worked?” Santino muttered against Gianna’s hair, and winced as she pinched him on the arm without changing gear. She dried her eyes—also dramatically—and clung to his arm as they made their way indoors. Santino stared as a tall stranger followed them in, though he waited until they were further out in the garden, under watch but at a discreet distance from any prying ears, weaving around rosebushes turned scrawny from the cold. 

“So. Your babysitter?” Santino asked, as Gianna briskly repaired her makeup. 

“Ah yes. This is Cassian.” 

“Doesn’t this mean nonna is still angry with you?” 

“No, I made the decision to retain him. Cassian isn’t completely hopeless.” 

“That’s… not really generous praise.” Santino looked warily at Cassian, who stared back dispassionately. “Though I heard you saved my sister’s life in Rome. Thank you.” 

“She probably would’ve saved herself if she had to,” Cassian said. 

Gianna smiled. “There. Isn’t he sweet. Like a puppy.” 

“If you want a puppy, just buy a puppy. Seriously, why are you here?” Santino looked past Cassian at the villa. 

“I took out the last of the Forleos and wanted a break?” Gianna pressed her hand over her chest. “You’re not happy to see me? You break my heart. You’re my only brother.” 

Santino rolled his eyes. Life had necessarily made him immune to Gianna’s drama, especially when it was obviously feigned. “Come on. You don’t even really like being in America. You don’t like the food and you think expansion is a waste of time.” 

Gianna pursed her lips. “I don’t think that anymore. The Liveri have to go.” Santino blinked at her, surprised. Had she or nonna guessed…? “They killed Claudia.”

Ah. “We knew that.” 

“I have proof. Alberto said Federico probably has a tape. Of her death, of what happened. Apparently he has a snuff film collection.”

“Since when did we ever need proof before to get even?” 

“When the consequences of acting are costly, of course we do. And I don’t just want to get even. I want to burn them off the face of this earth and salt their graves. That’s why I need proof.” Gianna clenched her fists, her jaw set.

Federico really had been thinking with his cock, to have missed this part of his sister. “You never were that close to Claudia. You always thought of her as a child. You didn’t understand why she wasn’t interested in the family business.”

“It doesn’t matter if I was. She was our blood.” Gianna’s lip curled again for a moment. “And I liked her. Even if I didn’t understand her. She didn’t deserve to die like that.” 

“So it’s personal.”

“Of course it’s personal.”

“Father wouldn’t approve. Nonna either.” Their father and grandmother had always had a policy of running the family business as a _business_. The less sentiment the better. Mass poisonings in Campania aside.

Gianna sniffed. “Yes, obviously, amazing, I never thought of that, how kind of you to tell me.” 

“You trust your babysitter?” Santino said dryly, with a glance at Cassian. He wasn’t even looking at them: he was studying the tree line. “He won’t go running to nonna?”

“I don’t know. Can I trust you, Cassian?” Gianna asked, with a coquettish smile. 

“Ma’am, I’m just here to protect you. What you do with your time ain’t any of my business.”

“I like people like this,” Gianna said. “Singular focus and all that. Speaking of which. How are you going with John?”

“Fine. He’s going interstate tonight with the mentor. Will be back in a day or so.” 

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant. I said it was fine. I’m working on it.” 

“Good. We need him. And we will definitely need to trust him. If he’s loyal to you personally, that will make things a lot easier.” 

“I’m pretty sure your guardian is going to object, neutrality or not, if we decide to invade the Liveri single-handedly,” Santino said, with a pointed stare at Cassian. Cassian ignored him. 

“Might be doable with John.” 

“He’s not a miracle-worker. And no. We will get into serious trouble with father. Be more subtle.” 

Gianna glared at him. She hated being corrected. “Oh?”

“You know there are consequences of getting rid of someone on the High Table. If we send John against Gennaro and Federico—”

“That’s not what I was thinking about. Besides, Gennaro is on the High Table. Federico is not. Nonna is already moving against them in Naples. And yet they felt more threatened by what is happening in America. Because there are rules. If we can excise their holdings in America, take those over, then Gennaro will lose his seat and its privileges.” 

“So you want to play a long game.” For his sister, that was surprising. And a relief. He’d thought that she’d simply wanted Liveri blood. “You don’t need to kill someone to destroy them.” 

Gianna shook her head. “Destroying them is not the only point. An eye for an eye. That’s what the Book says.” 

“Please don’t quote Scripture at me. You’re ignoring all the parts about turning the other cheek, feeding the poor, the Commandments about not murdering other people—”

“Chapter One, the Book of Gianna,” Gianna said, with a sharp smile. “You take something from me, I take something from you. A life for a life. Do you want to help me or not? If you don’t, stand aside. I will get to Federico myself.” 

Santino rubbed a hand slowly over his face. “God give me patience.” 

“Good luck with that.”

“Fine. Yes. All right. I’ll help. What do you need?” 

“We need John, of course, as a start. And you’ve been given control over the Brooklyn holdings, that’s good.” 

“What about it?”

“Surely some of the inventory was missing.”

“Yes?” Santino frowned at her. “It was inevitable. Father accepted that.” 

“Well, it’s not acceptable. Tell him that, if he asks. Have… hm, who did Father assign you to help with Brooklyn?”

“Piero and his team.” 

“All right, Piero’s competent. The Forleo would have had a network of dealers, supply lines, all that. Some of them would still be buying and selling from us. Some won’t. Get Piero to run a full audit, he’ll know how. The dealers who went independent, force them back into the fold. The dealers who went over to the Liveri, now, those we’re more interested in. Have them killed. Give their names to John. Tell him to feel free to cut loose in his unique way.” 

“Marco la Torre said he’d make a move in Chicago if we make a move in New York.” 

“Get in touch with him. I want to be present. He has to make a move. But not yet. After we stitch things up in Brooklyn, we make a move on the Liveri’s inventory. Not ostensibly. Just taking back what’s been taken from our stock. With interest.” 

“You want to force Father’s hand.” Santino exhaled. “This is really not going to go well. He has his own plans.” 

Gianna feigned innocence. “We’re only returning the Brooklyn operation to full profit. He knows how this works. If something else develops, oh, well, that couldn’t be helped, could it? Besides, I know Father and his plans. They move in terms of years. He hates big risks. And often he just decides to make peace. Peace!” 

“And how will this help you get to Federico?” 

“The Liveri are staying in the Continental, I hear. Rats, living like kings.” 

“Yes,” Santino said, with another glance at Cassian. He lowered his voice anyway. “You know the rules.” 

“Since when have _you_ been one for the rules?”

“Generally, no. But the one involving the Continental cannot be broken. Whether we like it or not. It’s not reinforced by something as pithy as tradition.”

“I fucking know,” Gianna growled. “Follow the money and all roads lead to the top. They live in the Continental, sure. They can live there as long as they like. Watch us burn down everything they own from its beautiful windows. Eventually, we will smoke them out.” 

“And if we don’t?” 

“We will.” Gianna bared her teeth, a lioness in wait. “One way or the other. I’m extremely patient.”

#

It was a long drive back from Atlantic City. They took the Garden State Parkway. John drove, Victoria watched the scenery or checked her phone. He didn’t mind. John liked driving Victoria’s little Aston Martin. It was a Vanquish S, a silver bullet of a car with a powerful engine that handled like a dream.

“Did you get the car from Aurelio?” John asked, as they coasted along. 

“No. I’m capable of buying cars from a normal dealer. Generally, people who only buy within the system are like Marcus, who has this strange, severe allergy to paperwork. It _has_ however been serviced once by Aurelio. He was rather too excited about it.”

“An actual James Bond car.” That’s why John had asked. 

Victoria chuckled. “That young man watches far too many movies. James Bond is a fiction. Awfully badly written fiction, at that. MI6 doesn’t operate like that. Double-0 section, license to kill…” She shook her head.

“Haven’t you killed people as part of MI6?”

“That’s still terribly classified, dear. But yes, there is something called a ‘section 7 authorisation’ with regards to the use of force, and yes, I’ve been granted it now and then.” 

“What was it like the first time?” John asked. When Victoria didn’t reply, he looked over. She was staring out of the window. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, dear. I was just thinking back. Do you know, I think I don’t remember. What about you?” 

“Gulf. Long shot, ‘bout thousand four hundred yards.” 

“Not bad.” 

“Got lucky. Good spotter.” John thought back. “Don’t think I felt anything at the time.” 

“There you go. I was probably the same.” 

“I thought I would have. Maybe it was Marine school. Did its job.”

“Ah, yes, the business of churning out disciplined little killers. We’ve got our own version of that. MI6 does poach off its ranks now and then, but not always. Soldiers aren’t generally what we’re looking for. SAS, maybe.” 

“Like fixers.” 

“Yes, dear. But there’s often common ground that helps. Whether we were born with it or made that way, people like us have, hm, a humanity deficit, shall we say. That’s why we’re so good at what we do. Normal people pale at the idea of shooting people for a living.” 

A humanity deficit. That made sense, though John couldn’t quite imagine Victoria being that way. Deficient in any way. She always looked so perfectly poised. Unflappable. “Marcus drinks a lot.”

“Not because of guilt. He’s just generally maudlin and loves feeling sorry for himself. It’s an awfully childish habit, I tell him, but he loves being such a grump.” 

“Doesn’t that mean everyone in this other world has the same deficit?” Even Santino had killed, though admittedly, he had been shaken about it afterwards.

“To some extent, I should think so. And other people besides. But it’s far more marked for us, isn’t it? And the rest of them know that. That’s why fixers are so in demand. It takes a certain ruthless mindset that the other people in this life don’t necessarily have access to.” Victoria eyed him thoughtfully. “Has this been bothering you?”

“I think about it now and then.”

“An interesting intellectual exercise, I’m sure. As long as that’s all that it is. John, if you ever think you’re regaining some of that deficit? That’s your sign to try and quit.”

“It’s hard to think of you like…” John trailed off. “You don’t seem that way.”

Victoria laughed. “Oh, I’m more self-aware than that. Do you know who we killed in Atlantic City?”

“No.” John hadn’t asked about any of Victoria’s jobs.

“He was a journalist, dear. About to write a casino exposé that would have been rather inconvenient to a local Cosa Nostra clan. Two young children, pretty young wife.” Victoria shrugged. “Hundreds of people around the world live in fear and under guard because of the clans. Because of people like us. There’s nothing clean or good about what we do.” 

“I know that.” A deficit. And yet the incident in the workshop had… hurt, somehow. Not like the way a wound hurt. Like regrowing nerve endings that had been cauterised. Maybe that was why intimacy had felt so raw. 

“You’re in an odd mood. Did something happen with Santino?” 

John probably took longer than he should have to say, “No.” 

Victoria chuckled, clearly not buying it. “They’re dangerous in different ways, that clan. The grandmother and the father are old guard, more used to Italy than operating in New York. It’s more of a closed system in Naples, and a very old one. The sister is smart but hasn’t learned how to temper her ruthlessness with prudence. And the brother, well, he’s spoiled and arrogant and those people are destructive, above and below.”

“Sounds like you don’t like them much.”

“I don’t make that mistake often, dear. But I respect Massimo and he’s a good paymaster, so I don’t mind taking the occasional job from them now and then. If it suits me.” 

“What are the Liveri like?” 

“There are any number of cousins in Naples. But the main branch? Gennaro Liveri is also part of the old guard. He and Massimo are fairly similar, actually, except that he’s probably more interested in keeping the general peace. That’s the way of people at the top of the pile, especially a pile made of something as shaky as traditionally fractious Camorra clans. The son, Federico, is a piece of work.”

John took his eyes away from the road briefly. Victoria wasn’t smiling. “You know him?”

“Thankfully, no. The clans are, in general, a business, run by a particularly ruthless breed of businessmen. They’re hard people, but—again in general—usually not cruel for cruelty’s sake, unless there’s profit involved. Now and then, though, there are bad apples. It’s not limited to the Italian clans. Marcus’ beloved Tarasovs, for example. Viggo’s only heir is reportedly a vicious little arsehole. Marcus and I have got an ongoing bet between us as to whether he ever gets old enough to inherit.” 

“What about Federico Liveri?” John pressed.

“Not as stupid as Viggo’s son. Which is possibly worse. He’s smart _and_ cruel.” Victoria flicked through something on her phone. “Though of course, given I’ve just turned someone into a single mother in Atlantic City, perhaps I’m not the best person to expound on the nature of cruelty.” 

“Guess not.” 

“I know the D’Antonio and Liveri clans are at war,” Victoria said, “so you’d probably be called on to do more work soon. Remember what I said.”

“Don’t make a splash?”

“It’s probably a little late for that now,” Victoria allowed, “after what you did to Vito Forleo and to Brooklyn. Just try not to make a habit of overdoing it.”

“No M134s in the car park?”

Victoria let out an exasperated little sigh. “What is it with you men and M134s? Stop harping like fishwives. Just try having a little fun on the job now and then, within reason. You might like it.” 

John got home around late afternoon, watched Victoria drive off, had a shower, and checked his phone. There was a message from Santino, instructing him to arrive for dinner suitably dressed at some location John had never heard of. That wasn’t for a few more hours, so John sent back a confirmation and lay on the couch, hands over his belly, thinking of deficits. He imagined a street of people walking around, alternatively opaque in various degrees. Light and the absence of light.

Maybe that was the other problem. Having a humanity deficit meant being unable to properly parse tenderness. That’s why it had been more of a shock than it should have been, even though it was still part of the transaction. John didn’t mind. He wasn’t here because of that. With someone else to decide when it was okay for John to pull the trigger, there was the same familiar stillness to the days outside the killing days, a stillness he recognised from the Marines. It was what John had generally understood of as peace, a far less uncertain peace than the breed he’d been living with when he’d been left to his own devices. 

ETA three hours. John set an alarm, curled up, and went to sleep. He didn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jan/14/-sp-roberto-saviano-my-life-under-armed-guard-gomorrah


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter changes the overall rating of this fic to E.

Gianna was fairly sure that Santino had chosen Patsy’s for lunch to annoy her, but she smiled sweetly through ordering. They took up a corner section with part of their retinue, the others outside or checking back entrances. After they ordered and waved off the nervous server appointed to their table, Santino glanced at the mirrored walls. Other patrons were assiduously ignoring them.

“Very funny,” Gianna said. 

“What’s funny?”

“Choosing to come here?” 

Santino shrugged. “It’s Luciano’s birthday and he likes this place.” He nodded at one of the tables of retainers. At Gianna’s blink, he frowned at her. “What?” 

“Nothing. I thought you insisted on coming here to irritate me.” 

“Please. That’s a lot of effort. And the food’s not that bad.” Santino glanced over to where Cassian was seated. Back to a wall, though at one of the closer tables. He wasn’t really talking to the others, only watching exits, his feet flat on the ground. “Your guard dog is useful.” 

“Father will probably assign another one to you sooner or later.” Gianna looked closely at Santino. “I really am sorry about Matteo.” 

“Why? He was a traitor.” Santino scowled. 

“All right. Just checking.”

Santino waited until the server returned with their wine, pouring them a glass each after Gianna approved the taste and leaving the bottle on the table. Gianna sipped, staring pointedly at Santino until he made a show of picking up the glass the right way. He lowered his voice, both of them speaking only for each other’s ears. “The audit is complete. The independent dealers have all returned to the fold. Some had to be persuaded more strongly than others.” 

“Good.” Gianna would rather have handled that herself, but she couldn’t overplay her hand, annoying as it was to have to play the part of a tourist and ostensibly leave her brother to his own devices. 

“John was given a name last night. Termination was successful. Small little operation on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Piero arranged for cleanup and repossession. We’ll give John another name tonight.”

“Good. We have to keep up that pace. Sow chaos.” 

“I know what I’m supposed to do.” 

“Still your first time putting it into practice.” 

Santino glowered at her. “As though you’ve had the experience.” 

Gianna bit down on her retort. If she pissed Santino off, he was more than capable of being completely petty about it. She couldn’t afford to be shut out. Or worse, sent back to Naples. “I’m just worried. I’ve never gone after big fish before. Not like this.” 

Thankfully, Santino relaxed, exhaling. “This was your idea.” 

“You agreed to help.”

“I know, I know.” 

“It’ll be all right. Like you said. John isn’t normal.” 

“He’s still a work in progress. It’s only been a month and a bit.” Only a little more than a week since she had come to New York. “I don’t want to push him too far.”

“Would he even notice?” Gianna countered. Santino had summoned John out for dinner with them after he had returned from his little outing with Victoria, but John had been quiet, near monosyllabic when talked to. He’d given Gianna the impression of a holstered pistol. Until the trigger was pulled, a pistol was nothing more than a silent piece of metal. 

“I don’t know.” Santino glanced around, taking another sip of wine. “I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

“Neither have I. Cassian said he has.” 

“What did he think?” 

“Said he felt sorry for those kinds of people. Didn’t really want to elaborate.” 

“Sorry?” Santino looked puzzled. “What’s there to be sorry for? John’s incredibly good at what he does. Would probably get even better. I saw him work firsthand. There’s nothing like it.”

Gianna made a mental note to ask Cassian about it again. “Nevermind what Cassian thinks. We have to keep this up. Cassian’s been putting me in contact with some people he knows. Independent information brokers.”

Santino grimaced. “I don’t like independents.”

“We don’t have the same network in New York. Either way. Word on the street is that the Liveri are worried enough that they’re bulking up. Security wise. They’re buying muscle.”

“They know that they’ll lose their seat if we dislodge them.” 

“That’s why I want John to hit as many targets as he can, as quickly as he can. Before we…” Gianna trailed off, raising her eyebrows. Threading delicately through the tables towards them was the familiar sloping bulk of the Manager of the Continental. Winston stopped at a respectful distance with an amiable smile, and approached only when Gianna belatedly rose to her feet, beckoning him over. She went in for the cheek kiss. Santino opted to shake hands. 

“Winston, how nice to see you,” Gianna said, smiling in return. 

“And you. Welcome back to New York, signora.” Winston’s Italian, of course, was flawless. A server brought an extra chair for the table, though Winston waved away a new setting and a glass. “I’m only going to be here for a brief chat.” 

Santino stared at him with open wariness, even as Gianna nudged her brother pointedly with her foot under her table. “Why are you here?” He ignored her. 

“It’s a nice restaurant.” Winston said, still amiable. “Famous Neapolitan joint, well-loved. I love the pizza.” 

“It’s not so bad,” Gianna said, hoping that her brother would take the hint and shut up. “Though of course there is better in Campania. Should you ever come to Naples, we will have to take you around.” 

“It would be an honour.” Winston looked thoughtfully at Gianna, then at Santino. “A law student and a business school student. How are your studies going?”

Santino blinked. Gianna tried to hide her own surprise. “I can’t say I’m near the top of the class,” she said, too startled to lie. “But I think I’m doing fine.” 

“Good, good. That’s good to hear. At Sapienza, no less.” Winston actually looked genuinely pleased. Though why would he care? “What about you, Santino?” 

“Why do you want to know?” Santino was more blunt. 

Winston sighed. “I have a rather technical question for the two of you, given your chosen areas of study,” he said. “What is the definition of ‘business’?” 

Santino scowled. Gianna grabbed his arm, and he glanced at her, but closed his mouth. “Why, legally speaking,” Gianna said, “I would say it’s an activity or enterprise entered into for profit.” 

Winston looked at Santino, who shrugged, deciding to play along with ill grace. “Commercial, industrial, or professional activity.” 

“When we first set up the Continental system with the High Table,” Winston said, “we never intended it to be some sort of safe zone where the wealthy and powerful could operate, free from repercussions. The Continental was meant simply to be a transitory point. Like actual hotels. A touch of civility, where people can be sure of a good night’s sleep, a decent meal—and access to general information—without having to constantly watch their backs.” 

“So the no-business rule.” Gianna tried to stay calm. She was beginning to see where this was going. Santino stared at Winston, a little confused. “No violence, that’s the most commonly known one. With the strongest penalty. But much of the rest is a gray area. With a sliding scale of penalties.” 

“Yes. We tend to overlook minor infractions. Checking emails, answering the occasional call, that sort of thing. Especially for short-term stays. We Managers understand. In an ever-connected world, it’s hard for people to break the habit. And we don’t want to shut our guests away from the world, from their families. It is a system run on good faith.”

“If the Liveri are running their operations out of the Continental, why do you let them stay?” Santino had finally arrived at the point, though more bluntly than Gianna would have liked. “That’s against your rules.” 

Winston stared sadly at them. Gianna kicked her brother under the table and put on her best smile. “No doubt they’ve apparently been on their best behaviour. But a Manager as experienced as yourself will have good instincts for trouble, of course.”

“They’re aware that they’re being watched while on Continental grounds. We watch all our guests, after all. For everyone’s safety. So far, the Liveri have given me no overt reason to suspect that they are breaking the rules.” Winston drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “But I have my suspicions, given that unlike other long-stay guests, they haven’t once ventured beyond the grounds of the Continental since their arrival, not even to make a phone call. Among other little things. Still. Confronting them without evidence would be impolite.” 

“So you want us to do the work.” Santino’s lip curled. 

“Who else has the most to gain?” Winston got to his feet. “Give my regards to your family.” 

“Thank you for your time,” Gianna told him sweetly. He smiled at her, nodded at Santino, and turned to go.

“That meddling old man,” Santino said, once Winston had departed from the premises. “He just got us into a whole fucking lot of trouble.” 

“Why?”

“Come on. Someone is going to tell Father that Winston personally descended from his fortified castle of a hotel to pay us a visit. Father will connect the dots.” 

“Not if we play this well.” Gianna prodded Santino in the arm. “And not if you let me handle Father.” 

“Look—”

Gianna leaned in, her voice pitched into a low hiss. “Don’t you understand? The Manager. Thinks. Gennaro and Federico. Broke the _rules_. If we can prove it? We can get them kicked out of the Continental. Maybe better. Excommunicated. The seat will be ours.” 

“ _If_ we can prove it. Winston couldn’t. And the Managers have eyes everywhere.” 

Gianna rolled her eyes. “He has a large ambit of authority _inside_ the Continental. Outside, he only has influence. Which is considerable, yes, but he’s still constrained by his need to stay neutral.”

“He can’t overplay his hand and he can only work in the best interests of the Continental.” 

Gianna nodded. “It’s up to us. If the Liveri are conducting business in the Continental, they have to be communicating outside somehow. So we work backwards. Find the threads.” 

“Sow more chaos.” Santino glanced into his wine glass. “If they panic, they’d make mistakes.” 

“Yes. Exactly.” 

Santino still didn’t look too convinced. “If we can play this well.” 

“Let me worry about Father.”

#

John was unbuckling holsters when he heard the door open quietly. He paused, tilting his head, listening for patterns, then continued tackling straps as Santino presumably looked around and took the stairs up. Over the past couple of weeks, Santino had developed a rather relaxed approach to John’s privacy. John supposed he didn’t really care enough to mind. He’d dropped the first holster on the bed by the time Santino peeked curiously into the room.

“Hey,” John said, when Santino looked him over. 

“Piero said you got ambushed.”

“Did.” John grunted as he kicked off shoes and started working on the empty knife holster around his ankle. 

“You’re all right? You didn’t go to a doctor.” 

John paused. He had a split lip and bloody knuckles, some scrapes, a tender ankle. His ribs hurt. Bruises. “Nothing serious.” John tossed the knife holster on the bed. “Guy you wanted dead is dead.” 

“What happened?” 

“Followed the named guy. Got jumped before I could get close. Took a bad knock on the head. While I was dizzy they got their licks in. Disarmed me, dragged me to their boss. Got free and killed them.” John paused. “Some things caught fire. Sorry.” 

“Nevermind about that. Piero managed to recover some of the inventory. You lucked onto the processing end of the Liveri’s main secret pipelines. And disposed of their new security.”

“Place was pretty crowded,” John conceded, then he hesitated. “Overdid it?” 

Santino let out a startled laugh. “No. My God. I’m beginning to think you’re some sort of superhuman.”

John considered this. He didn’t feel more than human. Less than human, yes. Sometimes. “I’m not.” 

“I don’t know why you’re…” Santino trailed off, making a helpless gesture. “You don’t seem at all proud. To be able to do what you can do. The work of ten, twenty men.”

“I’m not.” John stared at Santino, a little confused. “What’s there to be proud of? Being good at killing?”

“Oh John.” It ached a little, his name being said like that. Not tenderness, no. Amusement? Pity? John wasn’t sure. Santino was coming closer, undoing his tie, pulling it free. He pushed John to sit on the edge of the bed, starting on the buttons on John’s shirt, one knee pressed to the edge, against John’s thigh. “The tattoo on your back, the big one under your shoulders. What does it mean?”

“Fortune favours the bold. Marines thing.” 

Santino tilted his head. He had worked the buttons down to John’s ribs, slowing down. “Not a bad sentiment. But you don’t seem to agree.”

“One of the kids told me. Could also be said. Fortune favours the strong.”

“You don’t agree with that either.”

“No.” For most of John’s life, Fortuna had passed him by, stingy with joy. 

“You don’t think our meeting was fortunate?” Santino’s knuckles were brushing against a bruise over John’s ribs as he worked on a button, warm. It hurt, but it was a hurt that John didn’t mind. Maybe. Gentleness layered over a mark of violence, an act of erasure. He wasn’t sure. It unsettled him and yet he kinda liked it.

“I don’t know,” John said honestly. “I didn’t mind living under that bridge.” 

Santino sighed. “There’s a different between simply existing and living. Don’t you like the house? The car?”

“Do you get happy?” 

Santino blinked at him, surprised by the abrupt question. “I… well, yes of course. Now and then. Doesn’t everyone?” 

“Sometimes I think I do. But then I’m not sure.” Maybe happiness was a state that only someone with a relatively low humanity deficit could achieve. 

Santino stopped unbuttoning his shirt, frowning at him. He shifted up onto John’s lap, his weight warm and solid, his elbows loose over John’s shoulders. “Whenever I think I understand you, I realize that I don’t.” John nodded. It was a sentiment that he had heard before. “My father said you were an empty person.” 

“Sounds about right.”

“I don’t agree,” Santino said quietly. “I’ve seen empty people. We make a lot of them, through our enterprise. Drugs. Other things. They are hollowed out. You look in their eyes and you see nothing. Nonfunctional people. You’re not empty.”

John started to shake his head. Santino kissed him, gentle and warm and soft, closemouthed, a tender lingering press, careful of the split on his lip. John froze, unsure. Santino wasn’t phased. He kissed John again, then again with playful little kitten licks, until John clumsily tried to return the favour. The kiss brushed against John’s cheek was more of a caress, and Santino tilted up his chin when John kissed down his pulse, breathing him in. This hurt more than the bruises, somehow. He pressed his mouth against the hollow of Santino’s throat, squeezing his eyes shut. Fingers teased through his hair, stroking lightly down his back, rubbing over bruises.

“Does that hurt?” Santino asked. 

“Yeah.”

“You want me to stop?”

John shuddered. “No.” 

“Good,” Santino breathed against his ear. Even that scrap of praise hurt, somehow. Santino stripped off his shirt and sat back for a moment, studying fresh bruises. He pressed his palm lightly against one, a dull growing imprint against John’s ribs, and smiled when John bit out a groan. John’s belt joined his tie on the floor, and Santino pushed him onto his back. He traced the cross on John’s bicep with a thumb. There was a bruise against its base. John shifted his arm to press it against Santino’s fingertips, and watched Santino’s eyes widen. 

“You want me to hurt you?” Santino guessed.

“No.” That wasn’t really what he meant. “I don’t know,” John amended.

“Well,” Santino said, frowning again, “what _do_ you want then?” 

John brought his hands up, and when Santino merely stared at him curiously, he pulled Santino down. This was nice, the warm weight over him, pressed flush, a perfectly human intimacy. He smelled good. Santino made a surprised sound against his throat but stayed still as John tentatively petted his back, stroking over his spine. He kissed Santino’s temple, then his cheek, lower, to his mouth. It hurt to kiss, physically/not-physically. It was overwhelming, then it wasn’t. John tried to unfocus, to just enjoy it. He’d never done this with anyone before. Santino’s hand slipped between them, his knuckles brushing John’s belly, to the hem of his pants. Then he leaned up abruptly, impatient with his own shirt, getting it open, his skin pale, unmarked, slowing when John merely watched, hands on Santino’s hips. 

“What do you want?” Santino repeated, pausing. He was grinning though, as he said this, the Devil in his smile. John flipped them over, and he laughed, sprawled among belts and holsters. Gorgeous. John kissed down unmarked skin, breathing in the scent, licking up the salt, the sweat. He paused over the line of Santino’s underwear, where the scent was thicker, and fingers curled into his hair. 

“Have you even done that before? For someone?” 

John glanced up, but Santino only looked curious. “No.” Santino blinked, but didn’t say anything, so John unzipped him, pulling down underwear and pants. His cock wasn’t as thick as John’s, but it fit nicely in his palm and stiffened further as John tentatively tasted the tip. Bitter. 

Santino squirmed, letting out a breathy sound. “Watch your teeth.” 

John tried. He was clumsy at it, he suspected, trying to fit what he could into his mouth the way people he’d paid had once done for him, wetting his palm with spit for the rest. Santino moaned, pushing against his touch. Good sound. John tried to use his tongue, didn’t quite get the hang of it, and settled for just sucking instead, frowning in concentration, clenching his hand in a rhythmic fist over the rest. Knees trembled against his shoulders, fingers digging into the bruises over his back. John gasped, trying to choke down more. Santino keened, a lovely sound tangled around John’s name. Flesh pulsed in his grip, then John was choking, swallowing. He licked up the rest, slow, nuzzling laps. Santino’s hands were still over his skin, and when John glanced up, his pretty face was bright with pleasure. Joyous. It was like sitting before a heat source, basking in reflected warmth, his bruised soul leavened by an unfamiliar frisson. 

“Come up here.” John went, and Santino licked into his mouth, bitter taste and all. He pressed a thigh between John’s legs, nudging until John rubbed against it. It wasn’t comfortable like this, too dry, too hot, and yet, when Santino purred and whispered, “You’ve been so good to me, John,” against his ear, John was groaning, grinding down. Release was no less uncomfortable. Santino nipped his ear, worrying at the lobe, then at a patch of skin against John’s collar, working in his teeth over the edge of a bruise as John let out a strangled sound.

“I think you do want me to hurt you,” Santino said, after, as he cleaned up and straightened up his clothes. “In a way. But more than that. I think you want me to tell you what to do. Who to hurt. To decide when you’ve done something right. Something wrong.”

When had Santino figured that out? Sated, John was too tired now to unthread it. He stared up at Santino instead, quiet. Santino looked pensive. He avoided John’s eyes, frowning as he fixed his sleeves. “Yeah,” John said finally. 

“I should be glad,” Santino said. “Flattered, even.” He didn’t look glad or flattered. He rounded the bed, leaning over to kiss John on the mouth, a careful brush, avoiding wounds. “You did well today, John. And. I’ll… have another name for you tomorrow.” He sounded subdued. 

“Okay.” John watched Santino go, listening to footsteps descending. Against his mouth, the sensation of warmth was fading. He should get cleaned up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.quora.com/What-do-John-Wicks-tattoos-mean Ahaha as with anything there’s kinda a debate going on about this. The Hawaii marines theory isn’t right imo… their line is actually Fortes Fortuna Juvat. I’m leaning towards it really being canonically a tatt that John got with the Tarasovs. However apparently Fortes/Fortis and Iuvat/Adiuvat are used interchangeably etc and the tatt looks cool, I’ll just have it as a Marines tatt in this ‘verse.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually post the final set of chapters together, so this is a two chapter update. Enjoy!

Piero decided the cleared-out pipeline facility was ‘safe enough, more or less’ the next morning, but it still took some wrangling to to be allowed to visit. At the end, Father had only begrudgingly given them permission when their grandmother had called with urgent news from Naples. “I don’t see what’s the problem,” Gianna said, as they got out of the sedan. “Didn’t you say John killed everyone?” 

Piero stared at her sadly. He was a one-armed man of indeterminable age, older than Matteo, and had also been with their family for longer than Santino could remember. Once he had been their father’s guardian; after he had lost his arm to a bad infection from a gunshot wound he’d been shuffled into management. 

“Yes,” he said finally, after a moment’s thought, clearly trying not to offend. Santino liked the deference from multi-generation retainers, but he knew it sometimes irritated his sister. 

“But…?” Gianna prompted. They were descending through a narrow stairwell that had been hidden down an alley. Both buildings to their left and right were condemned, at least on first glance from the street. 

“It is a large space,” Piero said, clearly uncomfortable, his eyes darting between Santino and Gianna. “This is not so safe.” He settled for looking beseechingly at Cassian, who stepped over to speak quietly with him. 

The stairwell led to a narrow service tunnel, opening to a mezzanine steel walkway. Gianna whistled, looking over the safety rail. They were in some sort of unfinished subway station. Old rusted equipment and a partly dug wall lay to the far right, while to the left ranks of fluorescent lights scored their way along rough platforms, ending at two great mouths that fed away into impenetrable darkness. 

“Wow,” Santino said. Below, scattered retainers from villa staff and Piero’s men made for a skeleton crew working over the huge space. There was a strange, astringent smell—the cleaners had come and gone. They must have worked through the night and morning. Part of the chamber was blackened, soot smearing one platform and collapsed rubble close to one of the mouths. Inventory was being sorted on another platform. Crates of white packets, ornate chests of coins. Santino had seen large operations before, of course, back in Naples. Nothing like this. 

“They have to be funnelling the drugs in through the tunnels.” Gianna gestured at the crates. “There’s only heroin down there, according to the preliminary reports. They must have organised the pipelines by type of product.”

Santino glanced down again, trying to estimate the street worth of the crates on the platform. “Good thing John didn’t burn _everything_ down.” 

“Okay guys,” Cassian said. “We’ve had our look. Let’s go.” He stared back at them evenly as they both glared at him. 

“We only just got here,” Santino said, even as Gianna growled, “I’m not done yet.” 

“Area’s not secure. Piero’s still got teams mapping those tunnels. The Liveri have a lot of vested interest riding on this place and Piero expects them to retaliate. So. Let’s go.” 

“There is one thing I want to see,” Gianna said, before Santino could tell Cassian to mind his place. “And then we will go. All right?” 

“What thing?” Cassian asked. Gianna ignored him, starting down the walkway towards the narrow stairs down. Santino hurried after her. 

“We’re going to need more staff. Security as well.” Santino eyed the intact channel between platforms. Subway maintenance trucks were parked nose to bumper, backed up to the wall. The crates must have been hidden in the back or in the bumper, covered with equipment. “Ingenious system.”

Piero cleared his throat. “We’re staffing up, of course. It’s a little risky, since we’re stretched thin right now covering the Brooklyn operation. Your father didn’t expect such a rapid expansion. We’re flying in teams from Naples.” He shot Santino an apologetic look. “Overseeing a large operation like this, reconnecting the supply route, it is very complicated.” 

That was Piero’s diplomatic way of telling Santino that both Massimo _and_ Piero didn’t think Santino was up to handling the subway op. Annoyance welled up briefly, but Santino stifled it. Technically, it was true. “I know.” 

“You’ve been doing very well in Brooklyn.” 

Santino bit down his don’t-patronise-me retort, forcing a smile. “Thank you.” His ambit of responsibilities in New York, after all, depended partly on Piero’s continued good reports to Massimo. 

And on John’s continued loyalty. Thinking about the problem hadn’t exactly revealed any new revelations by the morning, and Santino was fairly sure he didn’t want to talk to Gianna about it. If anything, she probably wasn’t even going to approve of his methods, and Santino was in no mood for a lecture. Was this what Victoria had meant when she had told Massimo that John needed a handler? What John wanted from Santino… it was a level of intimate control that Santino wasn’t sure that he could cavalierly provide. Even if he wanted to. And yet—

Yet even as the revelation had repulsed him it had also fascinated him. To assume total control of someone like John, a reaper like no other. That kind of power was as seductive as it was dangerous. It could go wrong so easily. _Should he someday turn on us he will destroy us as surely as he destroyed Vito Forleo_ , Massimo had said. 

“There should be something in here,” Gianna said, snapping Santino out of his circular thoughts. They were in what looked like a foreman’s office, messy with ledgers. Piero had already assigned staff to go through the paperwork. No computers. They looked up as Gianna marched past workbenches, and at Piero’s gesture, they bowed and left the room quickly. 

“What’s in here?” Santino glanced at the closest pile of paper. It was encrypted, though the key was likely somewhere in the office. The Forleo op had a similar system.

Gianna glowered at him over her shoulder. “Obviously, some sort of link to the Continental.”

“Oh, and you think they’d just leave that out in the open for anyone to see, hm?” Santino glanced around the office. “There are forensic accountants that specialise in breaking down that kind of thing. We could engage one.” 

“Can we go now?” Cassian asked from the door, but Santino and Gianna ignored him, going deeper into the office. There was a safe that a cracksman had already opened, but it just had cash and a sample of product. 

“Same as the blocks in the crates outside,” Piero said, when he saw Santino looking at it. “Pure heroin. Supply chain from Afghanistan.”

“Pure heroin doesn’t get sold on the streets. It has to get cut somewhere.” 

Piero nodded. “This is a shipment processing point. It’s cut with fentanyl somewhere offsite, according to what we’ve seen of the records. We’re still tracing the links. Might want to get John on that next.” He hesitated. “With your father’s blessing of course.” 

“Of course.” That was an annoying reminder. Technically, this was beyond the boundaries Massimo had set for Santino—although whatever Gianna had said to Massimo about the Winston visit seemed to have worked. He wasn’t breathing down their necks. 

“Look at this,” Gianna called from the back of the room. Santino headed over. There was a table with a few weeks’ worth of newspapers. There were coffee stains on some, smudges on others. 

“What about it?” Santino asked. 

“Come on, brother. Look again.”

Santino frowned at the papers. “So what? Someone liked the New York Times classifieds?” 

“Exactly. They are all open to a specific page on the classifieds section.”

“So? Someone here was looking for a job? Rather old fashioned to check the classifieds.” 

“You’re my baby brother and I love you,” Gianna said, after a pause, “but sometimes, oh my God.” 

Santino pinched the bridge of his nose even as Cassian ventured over from the door. “That’s how they’ve been doing business from the Continental?” he said doubtfully. “Buying out ads? What’s wrong with just stepping outside quickly and making a call?” He sighed. “Italian clans sometimes. No offense.” 

“How are we not meant to take offense?” Santino said, annoyed, but Gianna shushed him, poring over the papers. Santino tried to help, but it was an eye-watering amount of text, crammed into narrow columns. 

“Here.” Gianna pointed eventually. “These ads about the room for rent in ‘Amalfi’. It’s the same address, but the dimension changes. As well as the ‘ideal’ person. There’ll be a key around here, I hope.” 

“Gennaro buys the ads? How did he do that from the Continental without the Manager noticing?” Santino looked between two of the ‘same’ ads. The number of windows was different, as was the size of the kitchen. 

“He obviously doesn’t buy the ads himself. He probably leaves instructions. Somehow.” Gianna glared at the ads, as though challenging them to give up their secrets. “We need to go to the Continental.”

“And what? Barge into their rooms?” 

“Talk to the Manager.” Gianna flicked briefly through one of the papers. “I have an idea.”

#

The Manager was In, and on the roof terrace of the Continental. He looked fractionally less amiable as he ushered them politely to their seats. “I was perhaps hoping for a degree of subtlety,” he said, once they were seated. “The Managers are meant to be neutral.”

“Aren’t you?” Gianna said, with a sharp smile. “After all, we’re just friends having some tea.” 

Winston sighed. “I’m beginning to regret approaching the children instead of the father.” 

That made Santino scowl, but Gianna grabbed his wrist under the table. “You know why you approached us instead of our father. He’s risk-averse. Wouldn’t move just on your suspicions until he’s thought things over from all angles.” 

“So what have you got for me?” 

Gianna explained the classified ads to Winston, who gave this due thought. “A little old fashioned, perhaps,” he allowed, “but the conundrum remains. We would certainly have observed Gennaro or Federico giving instructions to buy ads.” 

“Why are they so interested in staying indoors?” Gianna countered. “You would know.” 

Winston tried another paternally disappointed stare, but Gianna stared right back, unflinching, and eventually, Winston looked away, with a sigh. “It may have come to my attention that the Riccis are rather upset about the death of one of their own and have taken out a very generous closed contract on the Liveris.” 

“Gennaro Liveri is part of the High Table,” Santino said. 

“Killing someone from the High Table is problematic, yes. Assuming you get caught.” Winston said, as mild as ever. “The contract, as I said, is very generous. The Liveris came close to death twice in Italy and decided to fly to New York.” 

“What difference does that make?” Santino was visibly puzzled. “Presumably the specialist would just follow them here.” 

“They came close to death in the Continental in Rome?” Gianna asked. Winston offered a slight nod. “Closed systems. Easier to breach, in some ways. They hope to hide here, where you have a better grip on general discipline.” 

“That is partly why I find a possible breach of my hospitality and trust rather troubling,” Winston said, taking a sip of his tea. “I would go so far as to call it upsetting.” 

“Are the hotel rooms completely under watch?” Gianna asked. When Winston sighed, she changed gear. “All right, how about I make observations and you feel free to interrupt, agree, or say nothing?” 

Winston said nothing, though he took a sip of tea. Santino squirmed, already impatient, though he stilled when Gianna squeezed his wrist again. “Somehow you’re able to monitor phone and internet usage throughout the Continental. That tells me that, at the least, there’s a system that lets you pick up audio no matter where anyone is in the Continental.” 

“I make it my business to know my own kingdom,” Winston said. 

“You also likely have a way of actually keeping an eye on guests,” Gianna said, “but given what I’ve heard about the occasional… business that ends up conducted now and then on Continental grounds, this isn’t an active system. You mete out consequences afterwards, rather than nipping things in the bud on the premises.” 

“I hate upsetting guests in general.” Winston was glancing out over the skyline. 

“Would it be possible for us to have a look at the video records of the Liveris’ rooms?” Winston started to frown. “Not all of it. Just. Between these times.” She named the hours right after John’s attack on the pipeline. 

“The privacy of my guests is very important to me,” Winston said, and sipped his tea when Gianna waited hopefully. 

“Maybe you take a look at the records,” Santino said, already exasperated. “Gianna, this isn’t helping. Surely Winston here has already had someone study video surveillance, if it exists. He probably would have done that before even getting us involved.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.” Winston glanced over to the door to the terrace, as though losing patience. 

“All right. All right. Presumably. There have been no phone or communication that has been unusual. All this time.” This got a faint nod from Winston. “So it’s something else.”

“Notes? Signs?” Santino asked. This got a sigh. No. 

“Do they take meals in their rooms or in the dining area?” Gianna asked. 

“Certain people have been said to compliment our breakfast spread, while the rest of the day we do provide room service on demand.”

“A daily compliment, shall we say?”

“It is a good spread.” 

“No doubt you watch them while they’re eating. Any guests that they might have.” Another slight nod. “Okay, what do they do during breakfast?” Gianna asked a little hopelessly. 

“Our guests often prefer coffee, pastries, and hot food. There is a selection of the local papers. The New York Times is often a popular choice.” 

“Reading the classifieds?” Santino paused. “Maybe they used a pen… marked off parts of the paper…” He trailed off when Winston shook his head. 

“Guests usually refrain from damaging Continental copies. Other than the crossword, of course, but we understand that.” 

Gianna narrowed her eyes. “One of them did the crossword? Every day?” 

“It’s not an uncommon practice.” Winston stared at her with mild reproach. “The Times’ crossword is popular all over the world.” 

“Today’s paper,” Gianna said, unable to hide her impatience. “The crossword that they filled out today. Can I have a look at it? Please?” 

Winston sighed. He looked bored, a bad sign. “Please enjoy the facilities.” Getting to his feet, he ambled out of the terrace. 

“Now what?” Santino asked, once they were alone save for Cassian. “We’ve pissed off the Manager.” 

Gianna glared at the beautiful tea set. It was tempting to toss choice parts of it off the edge of the roof. “Maybe we could break into their rooms.”

“Really don’t think so,” Cassian said, from the corner of the terrace. “Ma’am.”

“If you shoot someone who happens to be in the Continental across the street,” Gianna said, venomous now, “what’s the rule?” 

“Please don’t,” Santino muttered, then paused. “Tempting as it is.” 

They exchanged increasingly desultory plans, gave up, and got up to leave. On the way out of the terrace, Gianna nearly walked right into the concierge, Charon. He smiled gently at them, gloved hands pressed neatly before him. “Ah, messer and madame. The Manager has informed me that high tea will very soon be served at the terrace. You are both invited to attend.”

“I’d rather not,” Gianna growled. 

Charon inclined his head. “He would also like to inform you both that madame’s instincts about the crossword were indeed correct, and that matters have been set in motion. In particular, the Manager has said that he would feel particularly responsible, should there be an incident soon that would result in injury to yourselves.” 

“What? Who’s getting injured? I’ll shoot Federico first!” Gianna tried to push past Charon, only for Cassian to hastily hang on to her arm. 

“Rule against business. Still applies to you, ma’am.” Cassian said, apologetic. “Sorry.” 

“He’s letting them go!” Gianna snarled. 

“That would not be the case, I can assure you, madame.” Charon smiled politely. “Tea? There will also be cake.” 

Gianna seethed. Santino glanced at her, then at Charon. “Could we call our father? No doubt he’ll start to worry about us soon.” 

“Unfortunately, rules are rules. But if sir would like, I could pass on a message that you are both having tea at the Continental.” 

“Fine! We’ll fucking have _tea_.” Gianna threw up her hands and marched back to the terrace. Santino hurried after her. 

“Calm down. You’ve gotten what you’ve wanted. The Liveri removed from the Continental. Possibly excommunicated. The Seat—” 

“I don’t have what I want! I want Federico shot! Right now! Preferably a few times!” Gianna glanced at Cassian. “ _You_ weren’t asked to have tea.” When Cassian merely stared at her, Gianna looked to Santino. “There’s John.” 

“Calling in a hit is going to count as business, sister. Sit down. Breathe. Once they get clear and the Manager’s sure nobody’s going to start a war on the premises, he’ll let us go too. Then we can call John.” 

“Someone else probably sat close by,” Cassian said from his corner, as Santino and Gianna seated themselves back at the table. “Observing Gennaro or Federico do the password. Or they might have taken the paper afterwards.” 

“If the same person stole the same paper everyday the Manager would have noticed something. Maybe. I don’t care anymore. I want blood.” Gianna was still fuming as tea, scones, tiny cakes, and finger sandwiches were served. Santino didn’t touch anything. Gianna ate a scone, if grudgingly, because the Continental _did_ make good scones, and was considering cake when Charon reappeared.

“Messer and Madame are—”

“Free to go?” Gianna stood up quickly. 

“Or continue to enjoy our—”

“Let’s go.” 

Once in the convoy, Santino called John. “It’s me. Gennaro and Federico have left the Continental. Find them.” He hung up. “There. Now we wait.” 

“They’ll have run away somewhere. Like rats. Into one of their pipelines.”

“We should’ve asked the Manager what punishment he was meting out.”

“Who cares? All I care is that they left. Excommunication, losing membership, whatever. I want to find them. Why the fuck have we stopped?” 

Cassian gestured to the snarl of traffic before them with a shrug. Cars were jammed down the street, while in the distance, in an intersection, something was belching thick, oily smoke. “That’s the hold up.”

“Some kind of bad accident?” Santino peered. 

“With that kinda smoke? Nah. That’d be more like our kind of ‘accident’… wait… ma’am!” 

Gianna got out of the car. She knew it was reckless, but she didn’t care. She walked past the line of frozen cars, straight over to the hastily set up police cordon. Cassian and Santino caught up with her at the edge, and the closest policeman, a pale young man, moved over to wave them away before he hesitated and took a closer look at Cassian. “Uh… Cassian, right?” 

“Jimmy? Hi. How’s things?”

“Something a little different everyday in our NTSH department. You know how it goes.” 

“NTSH?” Santino asked.

“Well, uh, Nothing-To-See-Here, sir. That’s us who uh, deal with smoothing bits out when you guys happen to things.” Beyond, bodies were being pulled out of the cars and laid out on the street under tarps. There were fragments scattered on the road, metal, glass, gore. Three cars, all heavy sedans. “Grenade launcher, I think. You guys really love your grenade launchers. Precision shot, though. Only got the convoy.” Jimmy checked his notebook. “When we got the call and they ran the plates, it got shunted right to us.” 

“Who was it?” Cassian asked casually. 

“C’mon, man, you know I’m not meant to… okay, fine. Just this once. Stop staring at me like that. Umm. Liveri clan.” 

Gianna glanced around. They weren’t far from the Continental. The Manager had taken things very personally, perhaps. She ducked under the cordon, ignoring Jimmy’s yelp, striding over to the line of bodies. She toed the first tarp briefly over, then the next. Federico was under the third. Part of his face was gone, his eyes staring into nothing. She found his phone in his suit jacket, its screen cracked, but otherwise still working. 

“That’s evidence,” Jimmy said, though he only looked resigned as Gianna pointedly pocketed it. “Um. Nice meeting you guys?” 

“Bit of a let down?” Cassian said, as they walked back to the car, Santino dialling John again. 

“Don’t look so happy about it,” Gianna told him. Beside her, Santino frowned, glanced at his phone, and tried calling again. “What?” 

“He’s not picking up.” Santino tried a third time, then gave up. “Probably forgot to charge his phone again.”

#

John had been suiting up when Marcus called. He put the phone on speaker as he strapped on his knife sheath over his sock. “Yeah.”

“John?”

“Yeah?” 

“Okay.” Marcus took in a deep breath. “You in New York?”

“Yeah?”

“Right. Uh. How to say this. Umm. I don’t know if Victoria ever told you this, but if she’s given a private contract on someone she likes, she kinda gives them a head start, so, funny thing, she called me a few minutes ago, told me to call you and tell you that you’ve got an hour.” 

“Oh.” John pulled down his cuff over the sock, blinking. 

“So uh, I guess, there’s some things you can do.”

“Like what?” 

“Well.” Marcus exhaled. “If you haven’t written a Last Will and Testament you maybe want to get around to that.” 

“Why didn’t she just call me herself?” 

“That’s the second thing you could maybe do. Uh. The Russians use this underground network thing to move their product, so, if you really wanted to get out of New York quietly, like right now, I guess I could help you with that as a favour.” 

“False bottom cabs?”

“How’d you know that? Nevermind. Don’t tell me.”

“She wanted you to help me run?” John asked, sitting down on the bed. 

“How the hell do I know what she wants? I don’t understand women! Let alone lethally armed women who can shoot out a fly at a hundred paces! Okay. Never mind. We can be calm. Frankly though I think you’re going to die. But well. It happens to everyone, right?”

“That’s okay.”

“What? What’s okay?”

“I mean,” John said, “thanks for calling. And thanks for everything.” He hung up. Marcus tried to call him again. John watched the phone ring, then he turned it off. He stared at his hands for a while, rubbing his palms together. He looked back at the bed. That had been something different, that reflected warmth. It wasn’t perhaps what John imagined of as happiness, but it was close enough. Good enough. He removed the knife, tossed it on the bed, left the guns and their holsters where they were, and went downstairs to sit on the couch.

Eventually, he heard something tickling the lock on the door, and there was a click. The door was pushed open lightly, revealing no one, Victoria likely wary of traps or of someone shooting through it. She walked in, saw him on the couch, pursed her lips, and closed the door behind her. She was in a black dress and a white coat, long gray boots, a Glock with a suppressor in one gloved palm. 

“Did you think Marcus was joking?” Victoria asked. 

“No.”

She sighed. “The head start’s meant to be a hint, dear.” 

“I know.” 

“Are you even armed?”

“No.” 

“Tired of living, are we?” Victoria had the gun trained on him, her aim unwavering. 

John considered this. “I was for a while,” he conceded. “Just hadn’t really realized it yet. But now I don’t think so. I don’t know. Getting to know people wasn’t so bad.” It was new.

“But?”

“You told me about making a splash. I figured it’d probably be you coming. If I crossed some kinda line. Someday. I was okay with that.”

“In a way, yes. It is a little about what you did yesterday. But not entirely. The Liveri hold grudges.” 

“Didn’t they get kicked out of wherever it was?”

“The son was excommunicated, the father merely had his membership revoked. It’s a little difficult to excommunicate a member of the High Table unilaterally. Which meant he was still capable of taking out a private contract. Unfortunately for you.” 

“Was?” 

“I hear they passed away in an accident not so long ago.”

“Even the High Table guy?”

“Continental Managers do tend to take things very personally. It doesn’t matter. The contract still stands.”

“So why aren’t you shooting?” John asked. “Easy shot from where you are.” Victoria narrowed her eyes. 

“You are being really calm about this.” 

“I’m not afraid of dying. And. I’m okay with you being the one to do it.” 

“You don’t know me. We only met a month and a half ago.”

“You still called me to give me a head start,” John pointed out. “I’m not running. I don’t want to fight. So you want to shoot me, go ahead.” He turned away, looking at his hands. Turning them over onto the front, then palms up. His knuckles were still bruised and split from last night. His lip still stung a little. It’d be quick, at least. Victoria was a pro. Death was just the absence of life, an everlasting release. John was okay with that. From the hands of someone he liked.

There was a long silence. Then Victoria sat down beside him, within arms’ reach. The gun was nowhere to be seen. She hugged him, a gentle hug across his shoulders. “You have a lot of issues, dear,” she told him, patting his back. “I think you need a therapist.”

“Did that work for you?”

“No, but it amused me for a while.” 

“Still going to kill me?” 

Victoria sighed. “Oh, very well. I’m old and maybe a little sentimental today and besides, the holder of my contract is in several pieces across an intersection. I’m not entirely sure if I’d be paid even if I did shoot you in the head.”

“So… now what?” John had been prepared to die: now he was a little bewildered. 

Victoria glanced around the bare kitchen with disapproval. “I suppose we’ll order in something to eat and watch some telly.” 

Marcus burst into the house sometime after John located the previous owner of the house’s stash of DVDs and figured out how to work the DVD player. Victoria paused in the middle of making disparaging remarks about the plot of the film to glance over, her hand going briefly towards her thigh before she relaxed. “Next time you should knock,” she told Marcus. 

“What the hell.” Marcus gawked at them. “I broke speed limits getting down here from where I was. I nearly ran over a fucking _chihuahua_.” 

“Thanks?” John said. 

“It’s been over an hour and Victoria’s here and you’re not dead? Amazing. And. You’re both just watching…” Marcus squinted at the tv. “Goldeneye? _Really_?” 

“Oh, close the door and sit down,” Victoria gestured at the various packs of greasy chips and takeout on the table. “Have a chip.” 

Marcus closed the door and sat down, though he was still gawking. “Why didn’t you shoot him? Are you okay? Ill?”

“Probably the same reason why you nearly ran over a chihuahua to get here.” Victoria patted John on his arm. “Isn’t it nice having friends, dear.” 

“New guy and I are not friends,” Marcus grumbled, though he ate a chip and sank into his armchair, glaring at the tv. “I don’t even know him. Oh hell. I hate shit like this. As if you guys in MI6 would bother having assessors.” 

It _was_ nice. John settled in the couch, eating chips. On the screen, James Bond was accelerating around a bend in a James Bond car, chasing a red Ferrari, and for a moment, everything was all right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things I read for fics http://heroin.net/types-of-heroin/heroin-purity/  
> Click on to the last~~


	13. Chapter 13

Epilogue

The ascension party was in their villa in the outskirts of Rome, sprawling across the vast grounds. Gianna was somewhat disgusted to find that her brother’s mysterious hold on the hearts of all their female friends and relatives of a certain age remained unswayed. She left him holding court around the pool surrounded by giggling young women and located Augusto Ricci near the bar, talking quietly with Marco la Torre. They paused as Gianna approached, then greeted her with solemn cheek kisses. Cassian lurked in a corner, unobtrusive.

“Thank you for your help in Chicago,” Gianna told Marco. 

“Not a problem. A most profitable endeavour all round. Well done, excising the two of them from the Continental. I didn’t think that would be possible.” 

“They had as much a hand in doing that to themselves as we did,” Gianna said. 

“I hear the Manager of the New York Continental now owes you a favour,” Augusto said, toasting her with his glass. “Another thing that I didn’t think would be possible.” 

That wasn’t particularly true, given no favours had been named, but Gianna smiled. “Winston is such a gentleman.” 

“Congratulations.” Augusto glanced over to the main mass of the crowd, on the ballroom floor. There was a string quartet attempting manfully to play above the noise. Gianna had to smile to herself. When _she_ rose to the High Table’s seat, she’d have a proper stage, a light show. Something loud. A real party. 

“Thanks for chasing the Liveri out of Italy.” 

“Ah.” Augusto shrugged. “Julius was rather put out about what happened at the Rome Continental, but in the end it turns out that they might have been conducting business on its grounds as well, so everything worked out.” 

“I’m surprised he didn’t censure your family on the spot.”

“Oh, we weren’t indiscreet enough to use one of our own fixers. We hired someone from abroad. An American, actually. Mary’s not really one for the rules, and she’s good enough not to get caught breaking them.” 

“Haven’t heard of her,” Gianna admitted. She’d have to ask Cassian about it, maybe. “By the way, Grandmother said that the counterfeit stake is yours to pick up whenever you like. She still has some loose ends that she’s tying up, but with the death of both Federico and Gennaro, the rest of the clan’s collapsed into infighting. Easy to pick off.”

“My thanks.” They talked business until Paola descended on them, hooking her arm around Gianna’s, greeting Augusto warmly and eyeballing Marco la Torre with open suspicion. He smiled at her—Paola’s quirks were known to all their allies—and nodded as Gianna managed to excuse them both. 

“Seriously, nonna,” Gianna said, once they were clear. “Marco is too old and not interested in me, all right? For the last time.”

“You never know with boys,” Paola said darkly. 

“He’s gay, nonna. I’ve told you this before.”

Paola shot Marco a last suspicious stare over her shoulder. “Gay, bi, straight, blue, green, whatever, I don’t like you being alone with boys.” 

“Oh my God. Augusto was there. And. A few hundred _people_.”

Paola patted Gianna’s hand. “Yes, darling. About half of whom can’t be trusted. Remember that.” 

“I don’t see you haranguing my brother over all the girls he has around him at the pool.”

“Because he’s not very clever, so it isn’t very important,” Paola said, then pursed her lips. “Unless he’s falling in love with one of them? Which one? I’ll have her shot. Which harpy is after my precious grandson?” 

“Maybe you should find out, nonna,” Gianna said sweetly, and her grandmother narrowed her eyes.

“Your father wanted to speak to you,” Paola said, patted Gianna on the back, and marched off to ruin Santino’s day. Gianna smiled in sharp satisfaction and angled through the crowd until she found her father with Giovanni Ricci and Sofia la Torre. They were talking to Cosa Nostra guests, always a strained proposition, and said guests looked mildly relieved at the interruption, retreating quickly to the knot of other High Table representatives in the crowd.

“Papa,” Gianna said, after greetings were exchanged. “Nonna said you wanted to speak to me.”

Massimo glanced at Giovanni and Sofia. “Excuse us for a moment.” 

“Of course,” Giovanni said. “Congratulations again.”

“It wouldn’t have been possible without you, my friends.” Massimo watched until Giovanni and Sofia had waded back into the ground, then he lowered his voice. “We keep our friends close, but in this world, they can also quickly become our enemies.”

“Yes, Papa.” Camorra clans were notoriously happy to feud with each other. 

“Lines are being redrawn. We will make peace with the Liveri’s allies, keep peace with our own. The clan that speaks for the Camorra must keep order.”

“Money talks. That’s one thing Gennaro was good at.” 

“Not good enough.” Massimo scowled a little. “I have a new project for you. For years the Liveri dumped toxic waste around Campania. The people of course are starting to find out. The effects are obvious, after all. So we will take contracts to have the waste removed and disposed of elsewhere. There are facilities in Germany. Other places. Have the contracts negotiated at a premium.”

“All right,” Gianna said, a little surprised. There was money to be made in government contracts, of course, but her father hadn’t normally shown much interest in legitimate or semi-legitimate businesses. “I know who to speak to.”

“Good. And your grandmother tells me that we now hold most of Secondigliano.”

“Other than a few streets, which will be a matter of time. Clans collapse and reform, however. We may absorb them instead.” 

“She’s very proud of your progress.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

Massimo looked away to the left, in the direction of the pool. “Convincing the Manager to excise Gennaro and Federico from the Continental… was that you?” 

“You can’t convince the Manager to decide one way or the other,” Gianna said. “But yes, he did, in his own way, ask us to help him find proof that—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve told me that,” Massimo cut in, impatient. “But I know the Manager. Obliqueness is not truly in Winston’s nature. If he has something to say, he will say it to your face. He doesn’t care who you are, a clan boss, High Table, a fixer, a child. Unless he is undecided. Then, he likes to be obtuse. Until persuaded.”

“It was the both of us,” Gianna said, deciding to hedge her bets. Besides, she wasn’t entirely sure if she was still in trouble. 

Massimo sniffed. “The Brooklyn operation was handled aggressively only upon your return to New York.” 

Uh oh. “Santino no doubt needed time to find his footing.”

“Hmph.” Massimo’s fingers curled and uncurled over his cane. Her father wasn’t fooled. Then he smiled, a thin, faint smile, with no mirth in it, a familiar curl to the mouth, merciless. Gianna had seen it herself, when she looked into a mirror. “Someday I think this will be yours,” Massimo said. “Not your brother’s. But time will tell.” 

“Oh, Papa,” Gianna said, patting Massimo’s arm. “Time will only make me stronger.”

#

They located John at the Spanish Steps, taking a picture with, of all things, a Polaroid instant film camera. “Really?” Santino said, as John solemnly watched the camera spit out a square of white card that slowly took colour. “If you want a camera you can afford a normal camera, John.”

“Victoria gave it to me.” 

“I think it’s charming,” Gianna disagreed, smiling as she took John by the arm. “We didn’t see you at last night’s party.”

“I asked if I had to be there,” John said, allowing himself to be led away from the touristy throngs. “You guys said no.” 

Gianna sighed. “When we say ‘no’ but also add that ‘a lot of people would love to meet you’ we actually mean yes, you had to be there.” 

“Oh.” 

“You don’t like parties?” Santino asked. John slotted the camera carefully into a bag, the picture into a shirt pocket. 

“Too many people. Sorry.” 

“Why are you doing the tourist rounds if you don’t like being around lots of people?” Santino said. Even at this time of day, the area around the Spanish Steps was packed with tourists and sightseers. 

“Haven’t been to Rome. Victoria and Marcus gave me a list of places to see.” 

“May I see the list?” Gianna held out her hand. John passed over a neatly folded square of paper, and Santino circled over for a look. “Colosseum, Trevi Fountain… Roman Forum… Spanish Steps… Vatican Museum, Sistine Chapel, Pantheon… John, these are all tourist spots.”

“Yes?” John said, puzzled. 

Gianna wrinkled her nose. “I thought, well, that maybe a list provided by two of the most notorious fixers in America might be… more unusual.” She looked over at Cassian, who shrugged.

“Fixers are weird.” 

“Maybe it’s a prank,” Santino said, as Gianna handed the list back to John. “What did you ask them?”

“Nothing,” John said. “I just mentioned I was going to Rome for the first time and they ended up arguing about pasta and then about the Vatican, and then they gave me a list and bought the camera and told me to enjoy myself.”

“Maybe it’s not really a Polaroid camera?” Gianna said doubtfully. “Or. You like touristy places?” 

“Not sure what I like,” John said, which was how they ended up dragged over to Antico Caffè Greco, squeezed around a tiny table under gilt-framed paintings. 

“This place is kinda a security nightmare,” Cassian said, after they managed to order from disinterested staff. 

“Calm down, Cassian. Operating this close to the Vatican City needs special dispensation.” Gianna patted Cassian’s wrist. “And besides, you’re here, and John’s here, we’re all perfectly safe.” 

“No one’s ever perfectly safe,” Cassian said. “Thanks to people like John here.” 

“Sorry,” John said.

“If you’re collecting a set of touristy Polaroids of Rome for whatever reason, maybe you should take a picture of this cafe.” Gianna nodded at the glass counter of treats that they’d passed by to get in, and the rows of old and fading paintings. “Famous cafe. 18th Century. A few literary greats used to drink here.”

John thought this over for a bit, then he nodded and wandered off. Santino watched him go, slightly concerned. “So why are fixers weird?” he asked Cassian.

“Well, look at him.” 

“Victoria’s not like him. I’ve met Victoria,” Gianna pointed out. 

“Oh, she’s just like that. Just fakes it better. The really good ones, they’re all like that,” Cassian said, pulling a face. “You’ve seen trained hunting birds, ma’am? At rest, they’re kinda just bird-shaped. Have to keep them hooded. But once they’re set off, something generally gets fucked up real quick.”

“Sounds like you don’t like them,” Santino said. 

“Didn’t say I didn’t. Though they usually make my job alot harder. Feel kinda sorry for them, that’s all.” 

Santino didn’t fully agree with Cassian’s analogy, but he endured the cafe and afterwards they watched John walk off down a street. “Maybe we’re just inured to the beauty of the city,” Gianna said, as they headed back towards the Rome Continental for pickup. “While he really is a tourist.” 

“I don’t think he cares about historical sites.” 

“Maybe he’s trying to care,” Gianna said, and prodded Santino in the arm. “I thought you said you were working on him.” 

“It’s a work in progress.” Santino flinched away. 

“In what way? I don’t see any progress.” 

“It’s not on the surface,” Santino said loftily. Gianna narrowed her eyes, staring at him for a long moment, then she grabbed his arm. 

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

Gianna glanced around. Cassian was several steps behind them, watching a group of rowdy students, then looking away at the rest of the crowd, scanning for trouble. He wasn’t paying attention to them, or at least, not to what they were saying. 

“Don’t tell me. Did you fuck him?” Gianna hissed. 

“Come on…” 

“ _Seriously_? That is _not_ what I meant when I said to work on him!” 

“I didn’t say I did that!” 

“Surely you know how to gain and keep someone’s loyalty without fucking them!” 

Santino pinched at the bridge of his nose for patience. “Calm down please.” 

“I _am_ calm!” Gianna closed her eyes for a long moment. “So this is why you’re always ‘dropping by’ his house. Father actually asked me about it.”

Santino froze. “What did you tell him?”

“I knew it.” Gianna said grimly. “I can’t believe you.”

“Gianna—”

“I told him it was nice that you were finally bothering to make some male friends.” 

“Oh my God.”

“What else was I meant to say?” Gianna growled. “Besides, I thought it was true! That you were just taking the time to talk to him or whatever it was.” 

“I do talk to him!”

“In between what, sucking his cock?” 

Santino let out a long sigh. “You really want to know?”

“… Actually. No. He’s yours to handle so do what you want. Idiot. Hopeless idiot.”

“I can tell you all the details if you want,” Santino said, and smirked when Gianna pulled a face and slapped him on the arm. 

“Ugh, no. You and your conquests. Also. If you’re going to sleep with John, fine. Maybe you can now stop sleeping with my friends.” 

“But they always retain such a good opinion of me forever afterwards,” Santino said, and smirked as his sister smacked him again.

#

With exams coming closer, Santino started coming over to the house for longer stretches, complaining about how the villa was too noisy. The coffee table and part of the floor and armchairs were soon papered over with textbooks and notes, laptop cables coiled dangerously over the floor. John had tried reading one of the textbooks once, but it was incomprehensible, so he usually studied a language while Santino muttered to himself in dialect and used him as a pillow.

John didn’t even look up as Santino cursed and tossed a pen across the couch. He had been reading a book on his back, his head resting on John’s lap. “I hate this subject,” Santino said, not for the first time this hour, let alone the week. John didn’t reply. He’d managed to parse the difference between Santino expecting a response and Santino just expressing annoyance fairly early on.

He did glance down when Santino poked his belly. “How are you going?” 

“Fine,” John replied in Italian. “I think.”

“Your pronunciation is terrible.” Santino set his book aside, twisting up to climb onto John’s lap. “Again,” he commanded, even as John curled an arm carefully around Santino’s waist and repeated himself. “No, God, that’s even worse. Again.” 

“Aren’t you meant to be studying?” 

“My poor ears. Back to English.” 

“You said you had a lot to get through,” John said, obligingly switching. He wasn’t in a hurry to let go of Santino like this. It still ached a little, to hold someone close, to _get_ close, but less and less. The nerve endings, growing less raw. Someday John would understand contentment without the need for a language of loss. 

“I do. I’m taking a break.” Santino plucked John’s language-learning book out of his hand and dropped it off the couch. He leaned over, pressing their mouths together, chuckling as John instantly pulled him flush. It would be better skin to skin, but sometimes that still overwhelmed. Especially when they kissed like this, like time was winding down just between them. John breathed in the warmth of Santino’s skin, pressed his tongue against the pulse in his neck, heard/felt him purr. 

“How about carrying me upstairs?” Santino’s breath was hot against John’s ear, his teeth catching flesh in a lazy nip. 

“Did that yesterday and you got pissed later. Something about getting distracted.” 

“That was yesterday.” When John kissed his jaw instead of moving, Santino leaned back. “John, when I said that you could push back when I ask you to do things—outside of business—I didn’t actually mean that you should stop listening to me altogether.” He wasn’t actually scowling. John had slowly learned to parse this too, the division between playful/not playful. 

“I’ll remember that when you get pissed at me all over again,” John told him. 

Santino was heavy but he liked being manhandled, already hard and growling as John set him down near the bathroom, kisses more like bites as they shed clothes and stumbled into the shower. Santino usually got distracted at this point, endlessly fascinated by John’s tattoos, the last marks of a life John preferred to leave behind, but the last time John had let the water run cold he’d gotten an earful. He was careful about prep, even with Santino starting to squirm against him with impatience. 

When they got to the bed, damp, water plastered down Santino’s unruly curls, brushed their tips over the laughter in his eyes. It wasn’t the same breed of sentiment John had seen outside, between couples on the street, in cafes, in parks; it wasn’t a symptom of any sort of tenderness. The Devil only laughed when there was something to take, something to ruin. John brushed kisses over his eyes, over the wicked curl to his mouth. He started down Santino’s jaw, to the hollow of his throat, and fingers curled in his hair, stiff with impatience. John groped for the side table for lube and condoms, distracted, Santino’s mouth hot against him, arching as he rubbed his arousal pointedly against John’s belly, leaving a stain. 

Marks. The faded bruises on his back from a job in Queens, three days ago. The weals fingernails would leave over the letters inked over his back. Santino bit down against his throat as John slicked fingers up and started to spread him open. The reddened marks would fade in hours, even if he didn’t touch them. He’d feel them anyway, a ghost-mark, embedded deeper than skin, hurting more than they should. He pushed his hands lightly into Santino’s hair, pressing against his teeth. The Devil laughed, his laughter running hot and wet against his throat. 

“More,” Santino complained, nudging John’s spine with the heel of his foot. “I’m getting bored, John.” 

John obligingly eased in another finger, watching for pain. He knew Santino preferred things quicker, rougher, near violence, but if this was what John was paying a bullet price for then he wanted to have it as far from that as he could. Slower, gentler, far from grief. He’d pay again, and again. 

Santino nuzzled his cheek, rubbing a palm down John’s spine, careless of bruising. He wasn’t restless, but he was hungry, a look that John liked, even if it could tip quickly into temper. John kissed him, got bitten, and pressed into the sting, rolling on a condom, pushing in. Slower, gentler. He ignored the nails scoring down his back, re-patterning inked lines, the heels that dug against his spine. It always hurt to go this slow, this close, like he was being hollowed out, getting unspooled at the limits of lust. Santino’s breaths were unsteady against John’s cheeks, hitching into pretty little moans. John pressed in as far as he could go, inch by inch, and waited. Skin to skin. He had a hand pressed under Santino’s back, fingers curled over his hips. The world at this point always felt like it realigning along symptoms of tenderness. Santino’s fingertips traced uncertain patterns over his back, lips nudging against the edge of John’s mouth, his body pliant, so intimately joined and tight. 

Then the Devil would laugh. Fingers curled over the back of John’s neck. “Come on.” John breathed out. He rocked forward, angling to please, until Santino twitched and clenched down and whined. Sometimes Santino would get impatient, shove John over and ride him into the bed. Today he stayed pliant, though he purred and ground against John’s rhythm and whispered in his ear. Temptations and filth. John just listened. Never tell the Devil that he’s already giving you what you want. 

He spat on his palm, slipped it between them. Santino’s mouth slipped from John’s ear to his cheek, words stuttering into moans, gasps. John leaned up on an elbow to watch. Santino grinned back at him, shameless, flushed. Didn’t take long. John stilled, stroking Santino’s cock as it pulsed in his hand, rubbing the mess over their skin until Santino grumbled and kicked a heel against his back, urging him on, whispering praise. That hurt less now, that sort of warmth, less like being burned. Finding his own pleasure was always like shifting gear, winding down. Felt good, but wasn’t the point. John kissed Santino after, over his lazy grin, the pliant relaxed sprawl of loose shoulders, the slowing heave of his chest, until Santino smacked him on the arm and started to squirm. 

John got them cleaned up and disposed of the condom. He came back to find Santino sitting on the edge of the bed, cross-legged in his underwear and nothing else, studying the wall of Polaroids, blu-tacked into neat rows. The photos of places on the Rome list went first. The rest wasn’t in order. There was a recent photo of Marcus flipping John the bird on John’s couch. There was one of Victoria holding a yellow umbrella in Central Park. Cassian frowning at him in a side street in Rome, Gianna and Santino further ahead. A beagle puppy being walked by a smiling stranger. Santino laughing at something off-camera, and again, playfully pulling a face. Others. There was one of John, from when Gianna had briefly confiscated the camera and turned it on him, along with several blurred pictures of ducks until Santino had grabbed it back. Photographs were frames of light temporarily frozen in time. John liked some, didn’t like some, but he kept all of them for now.

“Gianna still says you should just buy a good camera,” Santino said. “But I think I see the point.” 

“Yeah?” John settled on the bed, pulling on his shirt and boxers, and when Santino didn’t move, nudged closer, nuzzling the back of his neck. Breathing in warmth. 

“Some time ago you said you weren’t sure if you knew what it was like to be happy. I think maybe you did know. Or you used to. That’s why you know how to miss it. You’re trying to remember.” Santino pressed a palm lightly over John’s knee. “And you don’t want to forget again when you do. These are instant memories, frozen in print.” Santino got up, sorting through John’s wardrobe until he found the camera bag. Then he came closer, aiming the camera at John. “Smile. Come on. You can do better than that. Smile.” 

The camera spat out a picture. Santino put the camera back in the bag and tucked himself against John, waiting as the colours faded in. The ‘smile’ sat unevenly on his face. Santino found blu-tac, stuck the picture to the wall, off-kilter, and came back to the bed. “There. Though you weren’t even trying.” 

“Sorry.” 

Santino shook his head. “We’ll take another picture in a year. Then another year. Track your progress. Until you remember.” 

John waited. This was new. He wasn’t sure if he’d paid his due. It didn’t look like it mattered yet. Santino kissed John on the mouth and let John pull him down onto the bed, lying still, allowing himself to be petted. The world was realigning, but the Devil stayed quiet for now. John breathed. In, and out. Closer to human, not yet close enough to be noticeable. 

Next year would be the same, he knew. And the next, and the next. But someday. He could look forward to that. It would be further than what he had been able to see on the bridge. Later, he’d reattach the photograph above the others. Start a new row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary: If you haven’t seen the trailer for Taraji’s new film where she’s a hitman—it is freaking awesome: https://geeksofcolor.co/2017/07/20/first-look-at-poster-and-trailer-for-taraji-p-hensons-proud-mary/

**Author's Note:**

> Done~~! Thanks for reading ♥  
> \--  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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